Dinosaur Fever: Epilog To ‘T-Rex And The Crater Of Doom'
19 February 2011By John Kaminski
The coolest book title I ever read is "T-Rex and the
Crater of Doom" by a geologist named Walter Alvarez
about what is known in epochal time as the K-T
boundary, which gives evidence of that startling event
65 million years ago that wiped out every living thing
on Earth that was larger than a chicken.
The imprint of the Chicxulub crater on the Yucatan
peninsula of eastern Mexico can be seen from space as
well as in the geological strata. This antediluvian
shadow of a meteor strike filled the planet's
atmosphere with a darkening dust lasted for centuries
and reduced the Earth's inhabitants to little more
than microbes among algae.
The gap in the geological strata between the
Cretaceous (dinosaurs) and Tertiary (mammals) (K-T)
epochal time periods that was deduced from the
paleontologists' dig in southeast Texas reveals that
all the fossils deeper than the gap that exists with
no fossils at all were completely different from the
fossils that formed later in time when life had
somehow recovered from the disaster.
So I got to thinking, you know how dogs and birds can
somehow sense when some disaster, like an earthquake,
is about to strike? And I wondered what those
dinosaurs who were about to disappear in one
humongous, all-encompassing bang were sensing just
before the big rock hit? Did they simper and whine
like skittish collies in a thunderstorm? Or did they
just look up with those those big Fred Flintstone
eyes, and — just like us — wonder what the hell was
about to happen as the big blue kachina zoomed toward
their invisible posterity.
Not long ago in geological time, but very long ago in
my own life, when I was a longhaired hippie cab driver
on an Ivy League campus, I read a book from an elegant
bookcase in a rich woman's house titled "The End of
All Men," written by a Spanish writer named C. F.
Ramuz in the late 1940s, about the sun frying the
Earth and everybody slowly sweating to death before
they melted completely. Of course, there was this one
character, writing a story in a sweltering room about
how as nobody realized that the end was nigh, life
went on as usual as the great cosmic clock ticked away
the last seconds of . . . someday, it is as certain as
the stars which blow up and spread their dust
throughout the universe . . . someday, human hearts
will no longer beat. And in the darkness of infinite
space, no one will remember anything we ever did.
On second thought, I believe I am confusing this with
a Twilight Zone (‘50s TV show) episode in which a
suitably hysterical actress named Lois Nettleton
portrayed a feverish citydweller dying from the lethal
heat of an expanding Sun. The twist at the end was she
was really having a delusional nightmare, because the
Sun had gone out and everybody was freezing to death.
I have never seen a better artistic rendering of these
pole-shifting paroxysms known as dinosaur fever.
I believe this theme to be very much on the minds of
many humans these days, as various nooses, all of
devious design, tighten around their necks. The
stiffness of clumsy rituals prevents clarity of
thought, and widows finger their rosary beads, Jews
peruse their account books while fondling themselves
to keep from thinking, and Muslims hit their knees
five times a day to convince themselves this will not
happen, that they will never be forgotten as long as
Allah smiles from a friendly sky. Too bad the Jews
have poisoned the skies. It makes it a lot more
difficult to even see the sky, not to mention breathe
it. Breathing sky has become hazardous occupation, as
the shadows of our own Book of Revelation nightmares
manifest in real time and space as the metaphysical
excretions of our own braineating guilt over
despoiling the garden we were bequeathed.
Speculating about imminent disasters has definitely
become a growth industry these days, especially on the
Internet. Capt. Eric May is the champ in my opinion.
According to him, Paul Wolfowitz has been trying to
blow up that refinery in Texas City now for, it seems,
five years or longer. And we always get the news that
it's going to happen next week. The real trouble with
all this fearmongering is that most of it is true, and
though the happy traffic in Texas City might be as bad
as ever, Capt. May's assertions are metaphorically
correct, as they are trying to blow us up on a
perpetual basis. It's simply what they do. But the
final words on this tangent of thought have already
been uttered, in the immortal quote of one of the
founders of Rolling Stone magazine, Ralph J. Gleason,
who said (something like) " . . . you may think that
you've gotten really paranoid about far too many
things,
but in reality, things are much, much worse than you
could possibly imagine." I love that line. It's so
true.
So when Dr. Tom Termotto, one of the last standing
pointmen on the Gulf "oil spill", confidentially sends
around my old friend John DiNardo's shocking
speculative hypothesis, which he insists was confirmed
by a renegade employee of the U.S. Geological Service,
that a major landmass is about to erupt from the floor
of the Gulf of Mexico, causing untold shoreline damage
from Cancun all the way around to the Florida Keys
from a colossal tsunami — and it could happen any
minute — those familiar symptoms of dinosaur fever
begin to aggregate in the mostly ignored recesses of
my brain, and the same rush of panic that caused me to
jump in my car and drive a thousand miles back in May
2010 because I believed I was beating the tsunami to
the Georgia border by a matter of minutes begins to
creep back toward the center of my mindscreen. This is
truly the tax bill from hell.
Here where I live on Lemon Bay, except for unusual
weather patterns, things have seemed normal since my
return last autumn. The tourists are comfortably
glazed with relief from their normal routines. Though
fewer in number, they happily splash in the apparently
normal bathwater of the Gulf. Dolphins habitually
softshoe past, and gather at Stump Pass where they
frolic and chatter and buzz the passing boats with
elegant bursts of 50-mph underwater speed. The routine
retinue of birds appears to remain complete, with the
sensitive little sandpipers and sanderlings and the
occasional frigatebird all present and accounted for.
I like the royal terns best; they remind me of Billy
Idol.
Five hundred miles northwest of here in the hurricane
target zone — from Apalachicola, Florida to the
bayoued delta of the Mississippi River — Kindra
Arnesen's lesions from the benzene and ethane in the
New Orleans air have become much like Cindy Sheehan's
laments for her son killed in a war fought for lies —
both sure signs of the death of the American dream,
and both largely forgotten and ignored by the majority
of Americans transfixed by amusing tailgate parties at
large sporting events. Forced gaeity, traditionalized.
Such a comfort in routine. It's a well known fact that
when you turn up the music, you cannot hear the
screams.
That is, until your head hits the pillow, and you
wonder what your future, if you have one, holds.
It is the fatal mistake of humankind that, when they
don't know the answer to something, rather than to say
they don't know the answer, they make one up. This is
really the syndrome that has gotten us into the pickle
we're in.
I love pondering the idea of biologist Lynn Margulies
that we are descended from clams; I think it helps me
relate to animals better.But then again, it could just
be another symptom of dinosaur fever.
John Kaminski is a writer who lives on the Gulf
Coast of Florida preaching the message that no problem
in the world can be authentically addressed without
first analyzing tangents caused by Jewish perfidy,
which has subverted and diminished every aspect of
human endeavor throughout history. Support for his
work is wholly derived from people who can understand
what he's saying and know what it means. http://johnkaminski.info/
250 N. McCall Rd. #2, Englewood FL 34223 USA
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