Look again at that pale blue dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar,” every “supreme leader,” every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam.

The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors, so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light.

Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves.

The Earth is the only world known so far to harbor life. There is nowhere else, at least in the near future, to which our species could migrate. Visit, yes. Settle, not yet. Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.

-Carl Sagan, “Pale Blue Dot”

A few weeks ago I had the good fortune of taking part in a press trip to the Philippines islands on a Reef Check expedition, sponsored by Malibu. That’s right, a liquor company sponsored a tropical diving trip for a bunch of pampered writers. Jealous yet?

Reef Check, a non-profit dedicated to preserving coral reefs worldwide, recognizes that coral reefs are the canary in the coal mine of oceanic health, and there is a clearly defined synergistic impact between the health of our oceans and the rest of the world. They’re drawing attention to the cause by getting in the water and playing a key part in the preservation rather than throwing the typical stale, hard-sell fundraisers that are the standard for most charitable causes. After all, while the reefs are struggling terribly, they aren’t exactly the most cuddly charity one can imagine; you can’t quite hug a sea urchin, and Steve Irwin pretty much ruined any chance of the sting ray plush-toy craze catching on. So that hurdle raised the question: what would be an ideal company to partner up with in bringing attention to protecting the reefs? In hindsight, it seems like a no-brainer: Malibu Rum.

The Malibu/Reef Check partnership led us to the Philippines, long considered the “center of the center” of global marine biodiversity and an aquatic utopia for divers. After a hearty beachside breakfast each morning, we trained in standard EcoDiver monitoring protocol with Dr. Gregor Hodgson (Founder/Executive Director of Reef Check and all-around incredible human being) before heading out on our own to explore the gorgeous reefs of Puerto Galera, an island about three hours south of Manila.

As the uninitiated floundered, puked and otherwise struggled to get used to the scuba/snorkel gear (who, me?), the rest of us were immediately rewarded for our seemingly-endless travel by some of the most marvelous underwater views imaginable.

Experiencing the ultra-high diversity among the Philippines reefs was literally breathtaking – I know this personally, having had the great pleasure of gasping at a sweetlip fish swimming nearby and sucking half a pint of seawater into my lungs.

While some took oxcart trips through the hillsides and others enjoyed beachside massages to pass the free time, everyone found their own little slice of paradise diving among the reefs, and developed at least a passing understanding of the delicate environmental balance that so many species rely upon. Seeing the cost of human impact up close was both troubling and inspiring.

Don’t ask how many cases of Malibu we went through (the company was kind enough to plan ahead) or how the majority of our group inadvertently found themselves dancing in a whorehouse one night (it doubles as a bar, apparently), but I will tell you that at some point in the sweltering madness I won a cocktail competition for a concoction that consisted almost entirely of the sponsor’s product. Can’t go wrong there, I guess. And Jesus look at the food…

Giant prawns. Magically delicious.

Needless to say, the experience was a fantastic thrill – but it served as a disquieting eye-opener as well: Twenty-five percent of the entire world’s species can be found on barrier reefs, and recent findings have suggested that there is great medicinal potential among the species found therein. Unfortunately, many of the most common species found 30 years ago have already become endangered or extinct due to overfishing, global warming, poor waste regulations and environmental standards. There is a very real danger facing these tropical coastlines as a result: Barrier reefs bear the name because they protect the shoreline from big waves. As the reefs break down, the tides move in further and hammer the beach, eroding the shoreline and driving civilization inland.

Do what I did – for free!

Until August 31, you can win a trip to do the same thing I did. The Malibu/Reef Check partnership have launched the ultimate beach internship, where 10 winners will have a chance to monitor coral reef health in the utterly stunning reefs of Thailand, the Maldives, or the Philippines. Airfare, room and board are included, and while you’re getting SCUBA certified in paradise you can revel in the knowledge that you’re helping save the world. 

Malibu is utilizing this perfect matchup with Reef Check to reach out to their young, eco-aware fans and offering them a chance to become a Malibu Beach Intern. To celebrate the partnership and contest, they’ve unveiled a limited-edition Malibu bottle:

“The Malibu Beach Internship provides a perfect opportunity to make saving the world just another day at the beach,” says Lisa McCann, Senior Brand Manager for Malibu (and master snorkeler). “We know that beaches and reefs are inextricably linked, so the partnership with Reef Check was a natural fit; the organization truly embodies the ideal of engaging the world in a fun and positive way while making a concerted difference.”

“What we love about the Malibu/Reef Check Partnership is that it is very real – with on-the-ground training in reef monitoring – the core of the Reef Check program,” said Dr. Hodgson. “With Malibu’s help we can reach out to so many thousands of young people and engage them in marine conservation.”

If you don’t win, however, there’s still plenty you can do to get involved. On a minimal level, you can simply avoid buying exotic sea shells, exotic ocean fish, or food from places that use blast fishing (which is exactly what it sounds like – fishing with dynamite). You can also join five former presidents by electronically signing Reef Check’s Declaration of Reef Rights.

If you’re feeling a little more generous, you can check out the Reef Check website, donate $10 to support the group’s conservation programs and sign up for their online newsletter.

If you want to do it on your own, you can sign up for Reef Check Training on your next beach vacation.

Did you know that Mr. Rogers was an evil man? By telling children they’re special just for being who they are, the late kid’s show host helped create a generation of worthless, lazy socialists who think they’re entitled to rewards without working. Well, at least that’s what the lunatic poster-children for fear-mongering idiocy at Fox News are saying. In between Glenn Beck’s pathetic crying spells and endless coverage of Obama’s “horrible,” “nation-raping” “socialist agenda,” Fox packed these three idiots into a time slot, fired up the mics and evidently said “Be as utterly fucking ridiculous as you possibly can be.”

The result:
 

The Fox “News” anchors are completely serious when they attribute the differences in academic performance between Asian and American kids to the fact that Asian children didn’t grow up with Mr. Rogers’ encouragement and reassurance that they’re special little snowflakes. It’s got absolutely nothing to do with the fact that we have a nearly bankrupt and hopelessly flawed education system – paying teachers less than garbage collectors – or that parents aren’t instilling the proper work ethic in their children. Essentially, these assholes want you to believe that American children underperform because Mr. Rogers taught them to expect everything in life to be handed to them on a silver platter.

They actually use the word “evil” to describe Mr. Rogers and criticize him for his “optimistic message.” Then one of them starts babbling about how children should go back to churning butter and making their own sweaters.

Let’s get something straight. In addition to being a cornerstone childhood icon that was a safe role model parents could rely on to help guide their child, Rogers was a far greater man than most people were aware of. He singlehandedly saved PBS from the executioner’s axe by testifying on the station’s behalf. He wrote every song you ever heard on his show. He routinely displayed immense acts of generosity, refusing credit or public acknowledgement. He was a better example to children, a better role model, than a good deal of the parents whose job it is to raise them.

According to a TV Guide piece on him, Rogers drove a plain old Impala for years. One day, the car was stolen from the street near the TV station. When he filed a police report, the story was picked up by every newspaper, radio and media outlet around town. Within 48 hours the car was left in the exact spot where it was taken from, with an apology on the dashboard. It read, “If we’d known it was yours, we never would have taken it.”

Once, while rushing to a New York meeting, there were no cabs available, so Rogers and a colleague hopped on the subway. The car was filled with people, so they assumed they wouldn’t be noticed. But when the crowd spotted Rogers, they all simultaneously burst into song, chanting “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” What an evil man.

And you’re going to blame American laziness on him? Every kids’ television character that ever lived should storm the station and dismember these ridiculous fuckers on live television (in front of their thick-headed, racist, panicked & desperately outnumbered audience), so we can see what true mean-spirited idiocy looks like from the inside. 

There are plenty of stories like these to go around. Fred Rogers was one of the greatest influences on children that ever walked the Earth. I’ve left you alone for long enough, Fox News, but you’ve crossed the line. 

You don’t fuck with Mr. Rogers.

Nas, help me out:

I don’t want to go inside just yet. Sitting in the car… Up The Beach just gave way to Stop on the stereo… the Jane’s Addiction show at the Echoplex tonight was fucking unbelievable. For just a few minutes, I felt like the giddy little music junkie I grew up as, totally freaking out over being three feet away from one of the most pivotal bands of not only my life, but the entirety of rock n’ roll.

Magic. Inspiration. The reason I’m here in the first place.
Stay tuned to Antiquiet for the review.

Damn.

This is a retarded video, and never in hell did I think T-Pain would ever, ever be a presence on this site, but I was too caught up in the sunny Hollywood vibes from having just interviewed Dakota Fanning and Chris Evans today at the Four Seasons to notice what was going on with the radio in the car, or the fact that I was rockin’ the hell out to a Ludacris song. 

For years, my launching point for radio here in L.A. has been Indie 103.1, but since that little gem of a station recently joined the great FM dial in the sky/went belly-up/became Taco Town, radio listening been like a blind free-fall in this town. I already said my piece on that particular topic, but essentially shit is all fucked up on the radio in L.A. these days, and I’ve found myself listening to some weird sounds lately. But really, I may have hit my head somewhere, cause this song is kicking my ass tonight.

Yeah, so Los Angeles is on fire. Again.

The sun’s long gone, but the thermostat reads 87 degrees. Halfway through November. You can’t go outside without choking on bits of incinerated mansion, falling silent and beautiful, like snow. Except unlike a snowstorm, the sky above L.A. is a darkened, jaundiced yellow, and instead of that frosty wintertime chill it feels like you’re standing in an oven. Just one more reminder that as I’m driving out of this festering, wretched overstuffed boil of a hornet’s nest for the last time, I’ll most likely nearly kill myself swerving across traffic as I’m leaning out the window to give a double-fisted middle finger to this town.

The slug-race traffic, the viral Hollywood apathy, the celebration of vapidity and spiritual fads, the lack of weather, the rate of violent crime, the massive flock of pedophiles, the fact that if I make a wrong turn I’m on another planet, and a hostile one at that… and oh, the snowing ash every so often.

That's not snow.

Hey, this town works for some people. And that’s fine – if there’s anything that can be said about L.A., it’s that there’s always a little magic going down somewhere in the city. And there’s a high concentration of doors to knock on in my profession. But it’s just not where I feel most at home. And it’s getting under my skin much more than usual lately.

 
Yeah, go ahead…I’ll be right behind you.

There’s been a relatively stale little joke going between myself and Skwerl for quite some time now – he often refers to me as a hippie, while I address him as… well, no need putting mustard on that mustard. But lately I’ve been thinking that our definitions of ‘hippie’ are a bit different:

Funny. Cute. Haha. No. This shit is retarded. It makes me want to pour used Hummer motor oil all over these Earth First! wackos, tie their hands to aerosol cans and force them to watch as I slash and burn the entire forest, which just so happens to include the last female of all the most adorable endangered animals on Earth.

Naturally, that’s not how I’d react, but if I saw a bunch of people wailing over a dead fucking tree I’d definitely be inclined to address the situation. Maybe with a newspaper. Maybe with a picture of one of their kids, getting their ass beaten at school because their mom’s a willfully retarded hippie who spends her time crying in the woods rather than showing her kid how to be a productive member of society and truly make a difference in a cause she believes in. Rather than wailing into a forest, dividing yourself from society even more, thus rendering your “efforts” flaccid, empty and useless.

Furthermore, if I were a distance away and heard people screaming in the woods like these people do at the end of the video – wailing like they’d just found their families hacked up – I’d be freaked the fuck out, Blair Witch style. If we can’t find a less ridiculous cause to obsess over, let’s learn to gauge the emotional intensity of our responses to situations, k? That kind of screaming is bound to get a person shot in the woods.

To be fair, I should include a little background on Earth First!. The group is best known for its reported botched bombing attempt in the UK 1990, when a bomb in Earth First! principal organizer Judi Bari’s car detonated, injuring her and fellow activist Darryl Cheney.

The group was formed in 1980 after angry environmentalists declared that the environmentalist movement had “sold out,” and that mainstream environmentalists were simply marionettes for corporate puppet masters. environmentalist. environmentalist.

The better-known Earth Liberation Front (ELF) and its sister group, the Animal Liberation Front (ALF) evolved from Earth First!. Each one represents a different shade in the lunatic hippie rainbow.

Here’s sampling of ALF’s brand of saving the world:

And some of ELF’s evnironmentally-friendly handiwork in Seattle:

This is why hippies need to smoke a ton of pot and spend their time following jam bands that play ten hour shows every night. When they get bored, they’re bound to do shit like think up ridiculous ways to save the world. And that’s no good.