Monday, January 28, 2013


In Yellow Dog Granny’s   feckit….Monday   post she included a clip that read ‘When I die I want to be thrown out of a plane wearing a Superman costume. 

 I like that picture…Perhaps crash through the window of  Fox News during Bill O's program.  

When I was younger I always said that when I died I wanted to be propped up on my bike with a glass of whiskey in my hand and a joint stuck between my lips at a biker bash, and at the height of the wild drunken orgy be torched off.

But I have gotten older and more environmentally conscious.   Now I just want to be cremated……put in a douche bag and have my wife run me through one more time.  Only trouble is, she hasn't agreed to it.  

You’d think a man’s last wish would be honored.

the Ol’Buzzard

Saturday, January 26, 2013


For the past week the temperatures here in western Maine have been in the low-teens and single numbers during the day and below zero at night.   Having chosen to live partially off the grid, I must, during this cold weather, restock the wood pile by the back door each day and constantly feed the wood stove 24/7: stoking it every three to four hours during the day and getting up during the middle of the night to add wood. 

Small stove for a small cabin

After a week of slavery to the wood stove my pride at fire building (a manly survival skill) dulls.   This morning I got up at seven and found the fire had died, but there were some glowing embers still visible in the ash.  I went out to the back (below zero) mud room, gathered up a hand full of kindling and a couple of pieces of fire wood, and came back in to load the stove.   A piece of news paper crammed into the middle of the kindling failed to ignite the expected pyre; but being unperturbed I headed back to the mud room for the charcoal starter stored there since summer.   One big squeeze and SHAZAM:  a brilliant flash of light – a puff of smoke – the smell of diesel exhaust and the fire wood ignited.   Like prehistoric man discovering fire, I stood there very satisfied and about to close the stove door when I look around to find my wife staring at me. 

“What in the hell are you doing?   Are you trying to burn down the house?   What were you thinking…………..”

Now I have got to admit that this was not my finest moment.  Suddenly: Man – the inventor of fire – the slayer of wild beast – the vanquisher of the hoards - became: Man – the toad.

The only comment I could think of was: “Hey, it’s a good fire.”

In retrospect I probably could have set a better fire set and started it as usual, or used slightly less kerosene (which stills seems like a practical solution to me – and I am not sorry.)    

But actually it’s not my fault. 

Both men and women have 46 chromosomes: 22 pairs, plus an XX for the female and an XY for the male.  Now that damn Y - chromosome has caused more problems for my sex than beer, liquor and dope put together.  

As a high school boy with my first car I drove out to a country straight away and put the petal to the floor and held it there until the car couldn't go any faster: Y- chromosome.

Sitting on the back porch with my buds drinking beer – we were throwing the empties into the back yard then taking up our pistols and blowing away the interlopers: Y- chromosomes.

Building a ramp to jump a dirt bike without realizing the projected run off was in line with a big tree: Y – chromosome.

Running through the streets of Jacksonville, Florida bare-ass necked – screaming like a fool: Y-chromosome.   (I could do a blog on this one.)

Accidentally shooting my dog in the head with a 45cal. in the middle of the living room floor (and I loved that dog): Y- chromosome.  (won't blog that one.)

Breaking up a canoe on the Swift River during runoff (my buddy and I both in the freezing water, each dragging a half a canoe - him lamenting as we crawled up on the shore, "My wife is going to kill me." : Y – chromosomes.

I could go on and on: women, whiskey, cars, motorcycles, brawls; yet, somehow I made it past three score and ten without a Darwin Award.    

Now that I think about it, it was my wife’s fault.   Her XX is supposed to moderate my XY.   Knowing I was playing with fire she should have been watching me and expecting me to do something stupid.   The only reason our race has survived is that the XX of the species have always rained in the XY. 

“Don’t hit that mastodon in the ass with a rock Gronk.   If you do he will come into the cave and stomp us!”
“No, no - I can do this.” (Y – chromosome)
Gretchen says, “Look Gronk – my tits.”
Gronk drops the rock and comes back into the cave.

So here we are, in a nice warm cabin, with the wood stove pumping…

And my excuse is: Y – CHROMOSOME.

And if I am ever going to see those tits again I have to declare, like the men of the Possum Lodge on the Red Green Show:

I’m a man
But I can change
If I have to
I suppose.

the Ol’Buzzard  

Thursday, January 24, 2013


One day a florist went to a barber for a haircut. After the cut, he asked about his bill, and the barber replied, 'I cannot accept money from you, I'm doing community service this week.'

The florist was pleased and left the shop.

When the barber went to open his shop the next morning, there was a 'thank you' card and a dozen roses waiting for him at his door.

Later, a cop comes in for a haircut, and when he tries to pay his bill , the barber again replied, 'I cannot accept money from you, I'm doing community service this week.' The cop was happy and left the shop.

The next morning when the barber went to open up, there was a 'thank you ' card and a dozen donuts waiting for him at his door.

Then a Congressman came in for a haircut, and when he went to pay his bill , the barber again replied, 'I can not accept money from you. I'm doing community service this week.' The Congressman was very happy and left the shop.

The next morning, when the barber went to open up, there were a dozen Congressmen lined up waiting for a free haircut.



Curtis & Leroy saw an ad in the Starkville Daily in Starkville, MS. and bought a mule for $100.

The farmer agreed to deliver the mule the next day.

The next morning the farmer drove up and said,"Sorry, fellows, I have some bad news, the mule died last night."

Curtis & Leroy replied,"Well, then just give us our money back."

The farmer said,"Can't do that. I went and spent it already."

They said, "OK then, just bring us the dead mule."

The farmer asked, "What in the world ya'll gonna do with a dead mule?"

Curtis said, "We gonna raffle him off."

The farmer said, "You can't raffle off a dead mule!"

Leroy said, "We shore can! Heck, we don't hafta tell nobody he's dead!"

A couple of weeks later, the farmer ran into Curtis & Leroy at the Piggly Wiggly grocery store and asked.

"What'd you fellers ever do with that dead mule?"

They said,"We raffled him off like we said we wuz gonna do."

Leroy said,"Shucks, we sold 500 tickets fer two dollars apiece and made a profit of $998."

The farmer said,"My Lord, didn't anyone complain?"

Curtis said, "Well, the feller who won got upset. So we gave him his two dollars back."

Curtis and Leroy now work for the government.

Recieved this in an e-mail
the Ol'Buzzard


This summer a dozen old grey beard bikers and I were sitting on picnic tables outside the VFW drinking beer, while at an adjoining table a young vet (who had drunk one – smelled one and spilled one) and his girlfriend were doing their best to shock us with sex talk.   Dropping words like fuck, suck, butt-fuck etc.  The conversation went something like this:  When we get home I’m going to spread you on the bed and turn that vibrator to warp speed …  She replied that if she screamed too loud he could always put something in her mouth ….

This was obviously being acted out for our benefit.   I couldn't help but look around the table and smile.   We were all vets – a band of brothers and biker brothers– and this young one, who was earning his stripes, believed he had discovered something that none of us could fathom, and we were suppose to be in awe.   I had to give these kids credit for trying to shock and awe a bunch of grizzly bikers.   There was nothing the young man had done or was about to do that we hadn't done a hundred times over with girlfriends, wives and whores. 

When you are young you see an obvious answer to every question, and most of all you think you are the first to discover sex.   This is the naïveté of the young.

The young naïve I can contend with – I kind of envy them – but they will mature in time. 

Posers, on the other hand are more grating.   They come in all shapes and sizes and from all backgrounds.  They are basically ignorant and insecure.   The militia idiots are training in the back-forty with their M-15 in preparation for repelling the black helicopters.   They are playing kids games but with real weapons.   Grown men who feel they need concealed carry license for protection are cowards without their pistols.  Just about anyone who is loudmouth and in your face is a poser looking for attention.

And speaking of attention seeking: some god please protect us from English and Fine Arts majors – especially the ones still in school.   Many become insufferable egotists who go out of their way to demonstrate their superior intelligence over the mere masses.   Like the Pentecostal snake handlers in Kentucky they speak and write in unknown tongues, or at least cryptic sentences that are constructed to mystify the uninitiated.   They hang out at coffee bars and try to impress onlookers.   Like the young vet, they banter about words like fuck and suck in an attempt to demonstrate that they are libertines and beyond convention.  They condescendingly correct grammar and spelling on public signs and in blogs.   In actuality their ego is much greater than their IQ.   If they remain in academia they will become literary savants but worldly ignorant.   

I don’t claim any superiority, and like BBC I don’t actually give a fuck about what other people think about me; but, if it were the case that when you die your entire life somehow would flash in front of your face – it would take me longer than most – for mine would have to be a double feature.  

the Ol’Buzzard

Tuesday, January 22, 2013



the Ol'Buzzard knows

Monday, January 21, 2013


A friend of mine that taught school with me in the Alaska bush just published his first blog post.   He is still trying to figure Blogger, as most of us still are.   He is a world traveled and world experienced.   Please check him out:   Twitter Twat & Twaddle.

the Ol'Buzzard


Dave Mallett is the Maine troubadour.  He is a ballad writer and singer probably best known for the Garden song:  Inch by inch – Row by row – gonna make this garden grow….

When President Obama was elected in 2009 Dave wrote a song of hope – of coming together and working together – putting aside partisanship for the good of the country – a new beginning.   

Unfortunately this didn’t happen.   The worst in man reared its head and determined to obscure the milestone of the election of our first African American President

Now President Obama has been re-elected resoundingly, and we can only hope that inroads to cooperation can be reached: and the North can finally meet the South.

the Ol'Buzzard


This evening I found a post from Banquet of Consequences among my favorites.    His account was of an episode of chest pains and dizziness he experienced that had him admitted to the hospital.  

I had a similar occurrence nine years ago and thought it might be informative and instructive to people of late age.   

Mine was unusual in that I was a school principal in an Eskimo village about 250 miles west of Anchorage, Alaska in the tundra of the Kuskokwim Delta.


I had been short of breath for a number of weeks and found myself gasping from the most minor exertions.   I had had some dizziness but like most men, I never mentioned it to my wife.  

We were in the middle of a winter snow and wind storm; it was 6 a.m. and dark, and I was showering, getting ready for work.   The last thing I remember was feeling dizzy and faint, and evidently I crashed through the shower curtain and landed on the floor, blocking the door to the small bathroom.   My wife was frantic trying to get the door open to get to me.   I came to fairly quickly but felt really strange with some discomfort in the chest.

 I realized the seriousness of the condition and the danger of my remoteness.    In the next village the principal’s wife coordinated the local bush plane service so I called her and told her I needed to get to Anchorage, explaining my condition.  She said all planes were down because of weather, but she would find a pilot willing to come and get me.   She called me back and said a plane was on the way.   I made it to the village dirt airfield and the bush pilot pick my wife and me up and was able to connect us with a Frontier Air flight to Anchorage.  

I took a BC Powder (which southerners know is like a super aspirin) before leaving and another during the flight.   The doctor later told me that this probably prevented me for a having a heart attack. 

At the emergency room I was fortunate that a cardiac doctor was on call.   She informed me that she believed I might have a clogged artery and recommended immediate testing.   Within three hours I was in the operating room and having dye pumped in through my groin artery.    I was awake and able to view the obstruction in my upper chest.   The surgeon manipulated the stint into place and expanded it: I immediately felt relief.    They kept me in the hospital for three days observation and then I went back into the village. 

Thank goodness for the insurance: the cost was $60,000.   

I have been fine and felt great (for my age) for the last nine years    That episode, however, weighed in my decision three years later to leave the bush and return to an area where there are medical facilities available without having to coordinate with bush pilots.  

I can’t say enough about the bush pilot.   He was as instrumental as the doctor in saving my life.  

 Bush Plane

Jaded, on his blog, commented about his stress tests, and I have had one about every three years since the incident.   

I understand his frustration with the procedure.   In my case I have an unusually slow heart rate: in the mid-forties to low fifties.   This is normal for me - but during the stress test the medical tecs expect me to achieve a heart rate of 120.   This means I have to almost triple my normal rate (for most people this would only be a doubling.)    I figure if the test doesn't kill me I am probably good for another couple of years – at any rate it is good training for sexual prowess (at least this is what I tell my wife.)

 the Ol’Buzzard

Sunday, January 13, 2013

THE HOBBIT: A REVIEW: Or For God's sake somebody kill the fucking dwarfs and end this movie.

Yesterday my wife and I went to see THE HOBBIT.   My expectation was to see a continuation of the Ring trilogy. 

What a disappointment!

The movie was advertised as an action/adventure; and that was a true billing.   They forgot to mention that there was no story involved…just action, special effects and adventure.  

The movie was two hours and forty five minutes long; which at my age means that even in a good movie, somewhere near the end I need to pee like crazy.

The premise of the movie was that a Dwarf kingdom, under a mountain, amassed a huge fortune in gold from mining operations.   A gold loving dragon attacked the kingdom, routed the dwarfs, occupied the mountain and claimed the gold.   As the dwarfs vacated the mountain, they were attacked by orcs.  A monstrous hand-to-hand battle ensued resulting in the defeat of the orcs, but leaving only thirteen dwarfs alive.  These thirteen dwarfs scattered throughout the world of man. 

Sixty years later the thirteen dwarfs gather at Frodo’s Hobbit house, at the request of Gandalf, to plan an attack on the dragon and liberate the dwarf’s hereditary home. 

That was the first thirty minutes of the movie; at that point the story ends – the rest was action/adventure.  (I use the word story loosely:  if you can accept a fragmented background without thinking too hard about it.)    

The 13 dwarfs, Gandalf and Frodo leave for the dwarf’s mountain and are immediately attacked by trolls.  After a fifteen minute scrimmage with trolls (perhaps the best part of the movie) the dwarfs move on and are straight away attacked by orcs riding giant wolves.  A battle ensues.

 The dwarf party retreat into a cave for safety, but the floor gives way and they are dropped into the underworld of goblins.   The dwarfs, Frodo and Gandalf fight thousands of goblins for about thirty minutes.  They kill hundreds of goblins without sustaining a single injury, not so much as an arrow nick.   They retreat on to a bridge that collapses and they fall at least a thousand feet into the abyss landing on a stone floor: miraculously no one is injured or even scratched.   They all recover laughing and continue on their journey.

The intrepid heroes move into a high, snowy, mountain pass that requires them to slink along narrow outcroppings on the face of a shear cliff.  Suddenly the mountains come to life and transmogrify into mile high stone combatants that rip off the top of other peaks and hurling them at each other - leaving the dwarfs (and company) hanging on for dear life. This went on for about fifteen minutes.   It was totally out of context, and seemed like something cut from a transformer movie that was included in the ‘adventure’ as an afterthought.  

The stone fighters turned back into mountains without explanation and the dwarfs move on – unscarred.
As they leave the mountain pass they are attacked by orcs.   By now, this doesn't come to any surprise.   The battle rages for a good twenty minutes and finally the head Dwarf is injured.  At this point Gandalf whispers to a butterfly which summons a flock of eagles.  The orcs are routed by the eagles, and the dwarfs, Frodo and Gandalf fly away on the birds.  
The eagles drop off the dwarf’s and company on a plateau where the dwarf’s mountain is visible in the far distance.  At this point Gandalf uses magic to bring the dwarf leader back to life.  
The scene changes to a view of the gold vault underneath the dwarf’s mountain:  Suddenly, from beneath one of the massive hills of gold there is movement…and a reptilian eye appears…The End.  
I am not usually critical of adventure movies: I like blood and guts and fight scenes, and I don’t demand too much of a story – but The Hobbit made no sense, and after a while the fight scenes were not even exciting. 
I think Gandalf should have summoned the eagles to Frodo’s Hobbit house at the very beginning of the movie and the whole group flown to the mountain.   This would have made the movie about two hours shorter, and the audience would not have had to sit through back to back and belly to belly fight scenes loosely tied together.   That would have given us time to eat our popcorn, drink our cokes, return home and watch the Lord of the Ring’s DVD with a glass of wine.  
the Ol’Buzzard    

Tuesday, January 8, 2013


I just made a post about a Trillion Dollar Coin and that got me thinking about coinage.   Why the hell do we still have pennies?   A penny can’t buy anything, and I sure as hell am tired of seeing something for sale at $49.99 (for example.)   Why not just go ahead and post it for $50.00: as that is what, for all practical purposes, it cost.   I wouldn't bother to bend over and picking up a penny off the sidewalk.  

Why must we create a penny in change for a purchase?    A penny is a pain in the ass to carry around and isn't worth squat.  

I am sure that it must cost more than a penny for the government to mint and distribute the one cent coin. 

While I am thinking about it – what can you buy for a nickel?  

I just asking; wouldn't the government save money if they quit minting worthless coins?

the Ol’Buzzard


We could even put Reagan's face on it to please Republicans

I have little to no knowledge as to how the Treasury of the United States works and what regulations control the minting of coins and printing of bills.   I have sometimes (briefly) wondered why the government could not just print more money when deficits loom.

At one time our money was worth face value: a fifty dollar gold piece was actually worth fifty dollars in precious metal and a one dollar silver certificate was redeemable for one dollar worth of silver.  

Those days have long gone, and now our money is not backed up by hard collateral, but is worth its face value only because the government says it is.   Foreign governments and our own population have no idea how much paper money or how much coin currency is in circulation.   Therefore, an increase in the supply would not change the value of the currency – again it has value only because the government says it does.  

In 1996 a law was passed by Congress allowing the Treasury to mint commemorative coins ‘in any amount.’   Since 1996 the mint has made a profit of between six-hundred-million and eight-hundred-million dollars annually minting commemorative coins, and these profits go to the General Fund.    

When the government borrows money it incurs interest, and when it posts government bonds it must pay interest.   However, the Secretary of the Treasury has the authority from the Constitution to create money without debt.   In other words printing money is debt neutral.

Thus the musing of some people that the government should mint a trillion dollar coin and deposit it in the general fund to solve the debt crisis.  

This has absolutely no chance of actually happening; however, in true Republican conspiracy fashion a Republican Congressman is putting together a bill that would forbid the President from having the Treasury issue a trillion dollar coin.  

I am sure that many people have much grater knowledge of government financing and money printing than I do – so I stand to be corrected.

But you have got to admit, it is an intriguing idea.

the Ol’Buzzard 

Monday, January 7, 2013


Defeat the filibuster:
You have got to read this blog and then get involved.  
the brain police

Come on: talk is cheap - make the calls.
the Ol'Buzzard

Sunday, January 6, 2013


I have often joked that I should be able to claim the local birds as dependents on my tax return.   I go through a forty pound bag of black oil sunflower seeds every two weeks in the winter – and this doesn't include the shelled seeds and suet bars I put out during the coldest weather.  

Hard to see through the snow, but there is a Pileated Woodpecker hanging off the right side of the feeder.

For years I fought squirrels that kept destroying my feeders.  Now, it may be that I have mellowed with age or have just gotten lazy, but over the last three years I have scattered seeds on the ground in a quantity to allow the squirrels to feed with the ground feeding birds.  Now the squirrels leave my feeders alone.   Not only that, but the two squirrels that are wintering over come out to meet me each day as I refill the feeders.   They are quite friendly and I look forward to their greeting.

Reevaluating my reaction, I have come to realize that like any wild animal the squirrels haven’t intentionally carried on a conflict with me, but are reacting instinctively to procure needed food.     It is my need to control the environment and all the creatures in it that has driven me to squirrel hating frenzies in the past. 

One of the denizens at my feeders in the summer time is a falcon that every few weeks swoops in and kills a dove that is ground feeding.   I wish this didn't happen, but again the falcon is acting instinctively, within its nature.   Who am I to decide who lives and who dies?  

Zombie turkey attack

Normally, in the past, the only birds that wintered over were Chickadees, Nuthatches, Finches and Downy and Hairy Woodpeckers; but over the last two years I am finding birds at the winter feeder that are not suppose to be here this time of year.   There are doves, blue jays, a cardinal and titmouse. 

Pileated Woodpecker - not my photo: from Google

This year I also have two huge Pileated Woodpeckers that are regularly at the suet bars.   I have had Pileateds during the summer, and know that they often winter over in this area, but this is the first time I have had them at my feeders during the winter.

Google again.
If you want some actual quality wildlife pictures they are available for sale 
check out sqiatlo-rant

The Chickadees are my favorite; they swoop down, take one seed, fly back to a tree to crack it and eat it, and then swoop down for another.   However, all these birds (and the two squirrels) are depending on my feeders to get them through the cold, snowy, windy, short days of winter.

the Ol’Buzzard 

Saturday, January 5, 2013


Much has been written about death and dying.   Death is no stranger to me; I have seen enough of it.   However, my death has not resonated with me until the last few years.   It always seemed as something in such a far distant future as not to warrant concern. 

Even now, at my age, realizing my future is finite, I don’t worry about my demise – I don’t fear it; I view it as the final tribute that I owe to nature for a full and exciting life.

Yorick, I knew him well.


A poem by Phillip Larkin

I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. 
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. 
In time the curtain-edges will grow light. 
Till then I see what's really always there: 
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, 
Making all thought impossible but how 
And where and when I shall myself die. 
Arid interrogation: yet the dread 
Of dying, and being dead, 
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify. 
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse 
- The good not done, the love not given, time 
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because 
An only life can take so long to climb 
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; 
But at the total emptiness for ever, 
The sure extinction that we travel to 
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, 
Not to be anywhere, 
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true. 

This is a special way of being afraid 
No trick dispels. Religion used to try, 
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade 
Created to pretend we never die, 
And specious stuff that says No rational being 
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing 
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound, 
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, 
Nothing to love or link with, 
The anasthetic from which none come round. 

And so it stays just on the edge of vision, 
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill 
That slows each impulse down to indecision. 
Most things may never happen: this one will, 
And realisation of it rages out 
In furnace-fear when we are caught without 
People or drink. Courage is no good: 
It means not scaring others. Being brave 
Lets no one off the grave. 
Death is no different whined at than withstood. 

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. 
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, 
Have always known, know that we can't escape, 
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. 
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring 
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring 
Intricate rented world begins to rouse. 
The sky is white as clay, with no sun. 
Work has to be done. 
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

“Faith is simply unjustified belief in matters of ultimate concern – specifically in propositions that promise some mechanism by which human life can be spared the ravages of time and death”
The End of Faith - by Sam Harris

“The way I see it, being dead is not terribly far from being on a cruise ship.   Most of your time is spent lying on your back.   The brain has shut down.   The flesh begins to soften.   Nothing much new is expected of you.”
Stiff - by Mary Roach

“The question is not ‘Why must I die?’ but ‘Why have I lived?’”
Christopher Hitchens

“…to die, to sleep - to sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub,
For in this sleep what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause.”
Hamlet – Act 3, scene 1
William Shakespear

Quando Omni
Flunkus Moritati
(When all else fails – play dead)
The Possum Pledge from the Red Green show.

the Ol'Buzzard




Off shore oil drilling again raises concerns with the latest SNAFU from a major oil company.   A Shell drilling rig broke loose during towing and ended up beached on an Alaskan island.   So far no oil spill.    Another oil rig in the arctic seas has all but been condemned by the U.S. Coast Guard inspectors, sighting safety and environmental concerns. 

The major oil companies are the most profitable concerns ever to exist on earth.   The published profits of these companies are obscene when compared to world economies, and yet they operate here in the United States with subsidies, tax breaks and special consideration.   It is a reasonable assumption that oil payola is regularly channeled into the coffers of politicians in the Senate and Congress of the United States and to officials of other countries. 

At present a barrel of oil is selling at $93.19.   But the actual cost of oil is much higher.  When we add in the U.S. military forces assigned to protect oil concerns, foreign aide to third world oil producers, oil spill clean-up cost, tax considerations and subsidies the cost likely sky rockets to $500.00 or more per barrel.   This does not include the environmental damage to the oceans, land and atmosphere.   We can not put a cost of the lives lost in recent military campaigns, oil worker deaths and illnesses resulting from fossil fuel pollution. 

Both Democrats and Republicans protect the oil interest; but, the Republicans go the extra mile denying climate change.  

Here in Maine our energy policy requires that we produce 4% of Maine electricity from alternative methods, and that this increase each year by 1% so that by the year 2017 10% of our electricity will be produced by alternative sources.   This is the law – up until now.  

However, our Republican Governor is pushing a bill that will freeze the alternative energy component at 4%.    He states that alternative methods are more expensive than oil produced electricity; and in true Republican fashion, he says that staying on the oil standard will ‘produce more jobs and attract more business to the state.'  

Micro or Macro - at Both National and State Levels - Oil Rules.


the Ol’Buzzard