This is your world on fossil fuel

And Big Oil and Big Banking Just Want to Turn Up the Heat

So far today—today—scientists in the Antarctic have sent back word that an ice sheet the size of Los Angeles collapsed and disappeared sometime in the last week, amid polar temperatures as much as 70 Fahrenheit above normal. And scientists in Australia landed after days of aerial surveys to report that for the fourth time in six years a mass bleaching event is devastating the Great Barrier Reef, also known as the largest living structure on planet earth. Meanwhile, sources in Ukraine report that 300 people died when Russia’s war machine—mostly funded by fossil fuel exports—bombed a theater where civilians were sheltering in Mariupol.

Our world is literally being torn apart by the effects of burning fossil fuels—it’s never been more clearer. Or more unnecessary, since the price of renewable energy just keeps spiraling down.

But Big Money (personified by Jamie Dimon, CEO of Chase Bank) and Big Fossil (personified by Joe Manchin, D.C.’s largest recipient of oil industry largesse) are still united to keep us on our current path, and they seem to be winning crucial battles within the Biden administration.

Earlier today the White House announced a new plan for European energy security. It is, I think, the first serious misstep in the administration’s truly remarkable handling of the war—at first blush it seems to basically follow the wishlist of American fossil fuel providers and their bankers. Most importantly, it pledges that “the European Commission will work with the governments of EU Member States to accelerate their regulatory procedures to review and determine approvals for LNG import infrastructure.” LNG is liquefied natural gas, which lots of American frackers want to sell; it’s always been the Democrat’s energy weakness. And it’s precisely what the biggest of the energy lenders—Chase Bank—demanded earlier this week. Chase CEO Jamie Dimon in a meeting with the White House earlier this week called for a “new Marshall Plan” on energy. Its first two points, according to a CNN source, were “increasing natural gas production in an environmentally responsible way, building additional liquefied natural gas facilities in Europe.”

Remember—this is the bank that has lent more money to the fossil fuel indsutry than any other, trying to profit off the end of the world. It’s the bank that—until campaigners forced him out two years ago—had as its lead director former Exxon CEO Lee Raymond, a father of climate denial. It’s the Doomsday Bank. Chase has long been the house bank for Exxon, and as the Times reminds us, it was back in the 1980s that Exxon and its allies did all they could to get Europe hooked on Russian gas.

Chase’s new advocacy for LNG just drives the point home. In the last week we’ve learned that natural gas production leaks even more climate-wrecking than methane than previously thought

The study, by researchers at Stanford University, estimates that oil and gas operations in New Mexico’s Permian Basin are releasing 194 metric tons per hour of methane, a planet-warming gas many times more potent than carbon dioxide. That is more than six times as much as the latest estimate from the Environmental Protection Agency.

And that’s just from the drilling. Now try chilling it, putting it on a boat to Europe, heating it back up, and piping it across another continent.

But power is power. Energy secretary Jennifer Granholm has been wandering Europe with Joe Manchin, smiling as he talks up his “all of the above” energy strategy. The Biden folks continue to hope they’ll get his vote on a package of renewable tax credits (all that’s left of their Build Back Better bill); cliamte boss Gina McCarthy said she hoped it might happen by fall. But by this point it’s an open question whether it will be worth the passage, so larded will it be with gifts to Big Oil.

The White House plan does include some language about renewables and efficiency, but it doesn’t come with the hard numbers that were attached to the LNG portions of the plan. John Kerry, also dining with Manchin this week, said that the administration continues to explore ideas like Heat Pumps for Peace and Freedom—and New Mexico Senataor Martin Heinrich met with White House heavies this week to push the plan, which also got a strong endorsement from Massachusetts Senators Warren and Markey. But for the moment it appears that the administration is going with the path of least resistance, and bowing to Big Banking and Big Oil.

This is a terrible mistake, perhaps an epochal one. As research makes clear, a concerted clean energy push in Europe could wean it off most Russian gas by 2025. Instead we seem likely to lock in a generation’s worth of new infrastructure on either side of the Atlantic. And to waste what may be our last decision point on energy this decade—the decade that scientists have assured us will be decisive one way or another.

As Collin Rees at Oil Change International put it

Today’s announcement was lacking in detail, but the facts are clear: New LNG infrastructure is a death sentence for the planet. It would take years to build and would operate for decades, far beyond a timeline compatible with meeting climate goals. Ending the fossil fuel era as quickly as possible is the only path to achieve true energy security.

Europe doesn’t need more LNG import capacity — it can meet immediate needs with existing infrastructure and shift rapidly to reduce gas demand and ramp up clean energy. Boosting LNG exports from the U.S. would serve only to tether Western economies to a volatile commodity that’s driving conflict, killing the planet, and harming communities.

I’m afraid he’s right.

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Other news from around the world of climate and energy:

+Interesting account from Inside Climate News linking climate-driven shifts in El Nino cycles to, among other things, the bizarre heat at the poles in the last few weeks

+Nico Haeringer offers a remarkably smart essay on why the warm acceptance of Ukrainian refugees—so different from so many other recent situations—might serve as a real moment of change. Obviously this is crucial in a world of rapidly changing climate

The latest developments have proven — loud and clear — that the lack of ambition, the absence of policies of solidarity and hospitality, can be overcome. The ongoing solidarity with Ukrainian refugees reveals not only the existence of double standards, but the lies of our world leaders. Decisions to support the Ukrainian people and target Russian interests show that anyone saying “there’s no alternative,” “we can’t welcome all refugees,” “we can’t tax billionaires because it’s too complex” or “it’s not possible to divest from fossil fuels” is actually lying, for the sake of defending their own personal interests.

+Chicago joins the long list of other metropolises that are divesting from fossil fuel!

+How do you know when a protest is effective? Massachusetts activists went on hunger strike last week to protest a gas-fired power plant, and the fossil fuel trade press hit back with an attack accusing protesters of being ex-hippies who don’t shave their legs

+Find out how bad the air is in your city—97% of urban areas exceed World Health Organization guidelines

+Five hundred academics have come out calling for universities to reject research funding from the oil and gas industry

Accepting money from fossil fuel companies represented “an inherent conflict of interest” and could “taint” essential research and “compromise” academic freedom, they wrote. For the companies, it was a chance to “greenwash” their reputations and skew the findings of research in a way favourable to them.

+There’s never been a clearer case of windfall profits than what the fossil fuel indsutry is reaping on the back of Putin’s war. So we should tax those profits, as Marc Lee points out from north of the border

It’s not fair that ordinary Canadians are told to sacrifice when shareholders and executives garner massive unearned income. Those windfall industry profits are an example of what economists call an economic rent, which means unearned income by virtue of ownership, as opposed to income that flows from new productive investments in capital equipment or hiring people.

+I’ve been really pleased by the reaction to my big piece in the New Yorker last week about the need to end combustion. A particular highlight was talking with the truly great interlocutor Chris Lydon of Radio Open Source.

These installments of our epic nonviolent yarn come from China and are a good antidote to the grim news above! If you want to catch up on chapters 1-56 of The Other Cheek, the archive is here.

Like the rest of China, Wei settled in to watch the live lottery drawing. She sat on one of the two chairs in her apartment, and clicked on the small flatscreen that hung on the wall above the sofa that was also her bed; next to her on the table she had the printout of her lottery ticket, which she’d finally gotten on the last possible day, turning in her voucher with the seven numbers she’d picked after considerable thought. She’d avoided 0, 6, 8 and 9, because they were all lucky numbers and she figured everyone else would pick them. Eight in particular, since ba sounds like fortune; Wei wasn’t quite clear on how the lottery worked, but figured her chances were better if she had numbers no one else chose. Happily, the ages of her parents and brothers worked fine—she was 20, so that was no good, but she picked her apartment number. She decided the last number would match the number of sales she made on the day she needed to turn the voucher in; at 6 p.m., having entered one last order for a gross of disco Santas in red-and-green thongs, she hurried to the lottery stall and wrote in 47 as her final digits.

She wondered for a moment about the other programs on tv that night that clearly no one was watching—what if you’d worked all your life to become a singer, and your big break on China tv came the same night as the lottery drawing? But she clicked in to CCTV 1 right on time, and watched as a beaming Lu Yu appeared to fly through the Forbidden City on a Mothra Breakthrough phone before landing her magic carpet at the stage door of the Egg. “Come on in!” she said with a wave. “We’re going to find out if you won!”

Wearing a Go-Pro, Lu Yu raced through the backstage corridors of the theater, waving at stagehands, all of whom were clutching tickets. She burst onto the stage, where the crowd erupted in cheers. “Welcome China,” she yelled. “Tonight we find out the answer to the question everyone’s been wondering.”

Giant monitors on the stage flicked from scene to scene: there were tens of thousands of people gathered along the Bund in Shanghai, where a giant screen on the Oriental Pearl tv tower carried the broadcast live. “I’m here on Beautiful West Lake in Hangzhou,” a correspondent said as the famous backdrop flashed behind him. “Half the city is here for the drawing.” The scene flipped to Victoria Harbor in Hong Kong, where thousands were holding their tickets aloft, silhouetted by the neon lights of the giant towers behind them. Another camera showed the engineer of the famous skytrain to Tibet. “We have extra oxygen canisters on board, in case a lucky passenger is overcome!” he said.

“It’s not just Chinese people who are eager for the news,” said Lu Yu, and suddenly the screen filled with a picture of two giant pandas, live from the breeding center outside Chengdu. “PePe and LingLang have tickets of their own,” she said, and indeed the bears were clutching sheets of paper in their paws, as handlers fed them orange slices.

“Oh,” said Wei out loud, as the picture shifted again—this time to show Jay Chou standing on the Great Wall somewhere outside Beijing. He had his baby daughter Hathaway in one hand and a microphone in the other. “They say you can see the Great Wall from outer space,” he said. “Let’s ask.”

“I can see you just fine, Jay, and that cute baby too,” said a woman, who suddenly floated into the screen. “This is Liu Yang, aboard Shenzou 11, orbiting 249 miles above the earth. We’re crossing over China right now, and we want to say thanks to everyone who bought a ticket. The lottery has already generated so much money for the space program that we’ve been able to add an extra pod to the space station—which is good news because I understand the winners are coming to pay a visit later this week. We can’t wait to see you.”

“That’s right,” said Lu Yu, back on the stage at the Egg. “Two nights from now the winners will gather right here, in the center of China. They’ll meet the country’s leaders, and be introduced to all of you—and then they’ll get ready for a trip out of this world. Now, let me introduce Jimmy Lee, president of Mothra, our gold medal sponsor for the lottery. He’s with Chen Yuanfang, of PricewatershouseCoopers, the international accounting firm, and they will draw the numbers for tonight’s lottery.”

Jimmy Lee, in his ivory one-button tux, appeared at the base of a forty-foot tall phone. He ran up a set of stairs and pushed an app-button on the giant screen with both arms. “It’s a random number generator,” he said, “designed by our friends at Tsinghua University. When I push this red button, it will pick a number. Here goes.” The screen flashed and an animated firecracker exploded with the number 66. Wei sighed; it wasn’t one of her numbers. “Remember, you need all 8 to win the grand prize,” Yu Lu said. “But seven people with seven matching numbers will be the courtiers—2 billion yuan apiece. So don’t give up yet.”

Lee hit the button again: 44. When 45 also appeared on the screen, Wei started paying attention. Those were her parents. 22, 24 and 26 were her brothers. 73 was her apartment number. “One number to go,” Yu Lu said. When Jimmy Lee punched the screen again and it flashed 47, she looked carefully at her paper. Then she began to cry softly. Then she decided it might be a good time to meditate.

Ten minutes later, while Wei Lian was still sitting on the floor and counting her breaths, her Mothra started ringing. She got up and crossed to the table—she didn’t recognize the number on the phone, but she answered it anyway.

“Is this Wei Lian from Yiwu,” a voice said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Did you watch the drawing?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then you already know you’re one of the seven lucky courtiers. My name is Chen Heung, assistant director of the lottery. I’m calling to say congratulations, and to tell you that two billion yuan has already been deposited in the bank account you listed on your ticket application.”

“Thank you,” said Wei, who couldn’t think of what else to say.

“We will need you to travel to Beijing tomorrow night, to make sure you’re here in time for the announcement show the next day,” the woman said. “My colleagues will be in touch to coordinate details.”

“Okay,” said Wei. “Thank you again.”

When she got off the phone, she began to feel as if she’d really won.

She called her parents, who didn’t quite understand what she was saying; her brother, who took the phone from them, understood but didn’t believe her. “You must be mistaken,” he said. “That’s impossible.”

“Okay,” she said. “But actually it’s true, and now you’ll be able to go to technical college.”

“If you won 2 billion yuan, why would I need to go to college at all?” he said.

“Okay,” she said.

She called her old boss at the shower curtain factory, Bao Jun, who walked her through her story, and then started crying himself. “Now you will have a new life,” he said. “I am texting you the name of my lawyer, and I am calling him to say that he must help you. Having a lot of money is a great responsibility,” he said.

“I think so,” she said.

Then Wei made one more call, to a woman in the next building. Ever since she’d paid for her new phone, she’d been saving extra money that she didn’t send home to buy a dog. Mrs. Wu had a pug that Wei often saw in the street, a dog named BB that could sit and also lie down. Seven weeks ago the dog had borne eight puppies, and she’d been hoping that one might be hers. But Mrs. Wu wanted 400 yuan for the dogs, and Wei was only three-quarters of the way there. She’d thought maybe Mrs. Wu would let her pay the balance off later, but she was too shy to ask. And now she didn’t need to.

“It’s my lucky day,” Mrs. Wu said, when Wei reached her on the phone. “I didn’t win the lottery, but now I’ve sold the last puppy. It is the littlest one, you know—the runt. She’s very small because she couldn’t get her brothers and sisters out of the way, but now that the others are gone she has the teats to herself, and she’s doing better.”

“That’s okay,” said Wei.

“Do you want to come get her tonight?” Mrs. Wu asked. “It’s 300 yuan now, and 100 more if she lives for two weeks.”

So she could have had her anyway, Wei thought. “I’ll come right now,” she said. It took her just a few minutes to reach the apartment, and Mrs. Wu handed her the dog through the door, with a small bag of dried dog food. “You can get more at the store tomorrow, or you can just feed her your food,” said Mrs. Wu.

The puppy—so small, thought Wei, that she’d fit in the toe of one the Christmas socks she sold at work—looked at her sleepily. “You’ve been in bed, haven’t you,” said Wei. “Well, now it’s time to come to your new bed. Your new name is . . . Momo.” She carried her quickly back to her building, stopping once to put her down so she could pee, and putting her inside her coat. “Momo, try not to bark,” she said, as they climbed the stairs to her floor. “Dogs aren’t really supposed to be here.” Momo just looked at her, and burrowed in deeper under her coat. When they reached her room the dog was asleep. Wei laid her on the end of her bed, and took a picture, and put it up on her Renren account. Before she went to bed she changed her status: “Dog parent,” it now read.

Wei—who had been reading puppy-training websites carefully for weeks —set her phone alarm for four hours, and then she curled up next to Momo and went to sleep. When it went off she got up and took her down to the street to pee again, and then they went back to bed.

In the morning, things began to happen in a rush. First Bao Jun called again, to say that the lawyer, Mr. Xi, was already in an airplane on his way to Yiwu. “He will help you,” her old boss said. “Your money needs to go in many places to be safe, not just one bank. Some of it needs to go overseas. He will charge a little amount of money, but it’s important you listen to what he says. Don’t tell anyone else yet about winning, please.”

“Okay,” she said.

Next—while she was on the still talking to Bao—the phone started flashing with a Beijing number. She answered, and it was a woman from CCTV 1, who wanted her address. “We will pick you up in a car at 3 to take you to the airport,” she said. “We’ll be filming, so wear nice clothes.”

“But what about my job?” asked Wei.

“How much do you make at your job?” the woman asked.

“900 yuan a week,” said Wei.

“You make that much every hour in interest on your winnings,” said the woman.

“Oh,” said Wei. She called her boss, and asked if she could take three days off “for an emergency,” which seemed accurate to her. Her boss grumbled, but said “you haven’t missed a day in a year, so I suppose so. But only three days.” She thanked him—he was, she thought, not as kind as Bao Jun, but much kinder than most bosses she’d heard about.

And then it was time for Momo to go out again, and then the lawyer had arrived, with papers for her to sign, over and over, and then she had to find some dog food, and by one o’clock, when Wei got back to her apartment, she realized she hadn’t meditated all day. “Can you be quiet?” she asked Momo, and the pup climbed into her lap as soon as she folded her legs.

Wei had been worried all day that the people from CCTV wouldn’t let her bring her dog to Beijing. But the second the producer sent to fetch her came through the apartment door, she knew it wasn’t going to be a problem.

“He’s so handsome,” said the woman. “We’ll get him his own Renren page, people will love him.”

“She,” said Wei Lian. “Momo.”

“What a nice name,” said the woman, who was wearing what looked like party clothes to Wei: a puffy black skirt and a pink sweater over a white shirt. “I’m Ji Yanyan.” She looked over Wei closely. “We’ll get you some clothes from wardrobe when we get to Beijing. It’s better if we start out with the rags to riches look anyway. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to walk downstairs and get into the car. Not complicated.”

“Not complicated,” said Wei hopefully. She picked up Momo and took the handle of the small red suitcase she’d bought when she was still at the shower curtain factory. Pulling it behind her, she opened the door to the hallway, and jumped—there were two men with video cameras and bright lights in the darkened hallway.

“Just act naturally,” said Ji. “Pretend they aren’t there.”

So Wei pulled her suitcase down the hall, trying to ignore the cameras, and also the doors that were popping open on every side as people heard the commotion. “What’s happening?” stout Mrs. Zhao shouted. “Are you being arrested?”

“You have a dog?” said the little girl whose family lived near the top of the stairs. “Can I pet her?” Wei stooped down and let her feel MoMo’s funny ears. She’d read on her phone that it was much better to introduce dogs to lots of people when they were puppies, so they wouldn’t be scared of them later.

“Get that—that’s good,” she could hear Ji saying to the cameramen. One of them was trotting backwards in front of her, and the other following behind—the one in front ran down the stairs to take up a position at the bottom, and then let her go past and out the street door, where yet another camera crew was set up on the sidewalk. “Walk this way,” one of them hissed at her, and so she turned right, and walked up the block. A man in a black suit stopped her and took her suitcase, and then opened the door to the backseat of a long black limousine. “In here please, miss,” he said, taking her arm to help her slide in the seat. Inside was yet another camera crew, and a man in a white suit with a red rose in the lapel, who was handing her a glass. “Have some champagne,” he said. “I’m Sun Zhaouxuan, a goodwill ambassador from the China Lottery Commission. It is my honor to welcome you to the court of winners.” He shook her hand enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” she said, and took a little sip of the champagne, which tickled her nose. She hugged Momo tighter, and tried to listen as the man chattered. When they reached the airport the car waited a minute for the camera crews to catch up, and then they went through the same rituals all the way to the plane: cameramen running ahead, passerby watching with fascination. Wei had never been on an airplane, but she had no time to think about it: the crew bundled her through a side door and straight on to the tarmac, joining the passengers about to board a China Express flight to Beijing. Wei knelt down for a minute, so that Momo could pee on the pavement, and then boarded first. She could hear the other passengers talking as she brushed past.

“Maybe she won the lottery,” one man said.

“No one from Yiwu would win the lottery,” said another. “That’s for people from Beijing, Shanghai.”

“Why did you buy a ticket, then?” said the first man.

Half the line of passengers seemed to be holding up their phones to take her picture. “See, you’re famous already,” said the dapper Mr. Sun, who kept his hand on her elbow as they climbed the stairs. They sat down in first class, and a beaming stewardess immediately handed her another glass of champagne. “Welcome aboard,” she said. “It is our honor to be flying you to Beijing to join the rest of the court.” She turned to the camera and added, “China Express is the official airline of the China lottery. We strive to make every trip a winning experience.”

The cameras finally turned off once they began taxiing to the runway, and Mr. Sun offered to switch seats so she could be near the window. “Look, Momo,” she said, as they took off. “That’s where we live. And that must be where I work. I hope they’ll let you come there.” She felt tired and scared, but then the plane broke through a layer of overcast and into a bright blue sky, steering between giant fortresses of white cloud. “Look, Momo,” she said. “Not every puppy gets to see that.”