Showing posts with label Cornucopians. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cornucopians. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Peak Oil Faithful

Some time ago, someone commenting on one of my blogs here made the observation that believing in the theory of peak oil was, to many of the believers, rather like a religion. I thought it was an interesting thing to say, and it stuck with me. It sticks still. But is it a valid observation?

I am probably the last person on earth to try to define what is, or is not, a religion. Or maybe I’m the perfect person, as I am situated so far from the action. How do you even go about defining religion? It has beliefs, certainly, and these beliefs must be taken on faith. They are, by definition, unprovable. And my spell check is telling me that “unprovable” is not a real word, so I’m taking that on faith as well.

A religion must have a back story – a history of existence. There must be something to be said about it. Now here’s the kick in the pants: You can have a religion without a god. Buddhism and Taoism, both fine, great and honorable religions of Very Long Standing, do not seem to address the idea of, let’s say, the whole shebang being slapped up by an old guy in a robe with a long white beard who looks a lot like Robert Crumb’s Mister Natural. (And who, by the way, recently put out a stunning illustrated Book of Genesis – I kid you not.) Ah, but we are drifting far afield. (And there goes that cursed spell check again. So now “afield” is not a word? Geesh.) (Oh, and “Geesh, too.) Focus, man, focus! Is peak oil a religion?

Well, let’s see: It has its core belief that oil production peaks, and then declines. Sort of like death after life. OK, check that one off the list. How about a back story? Got it covered: Marion King Hubbert came up with the theory over fifty years ago, and it has played out in field after field, so we have both back story and miracles all lined up. And we got us a jen-you-wine prophet in Hubbert his bad self. He’s even dead, as most good prophets tend to be.

And you have to take it on faith. You have to believe that Hubbert was right, and you have to have faith that yes, some day, oil will peak and then decline, never to rise again. Sorry, Lazarus. Not this time. While many detractors point to the receding horizon of the actual claimed event of peak oil as proof that it is a false religion, we are still working in a very short time frame as religions go. Months and years, instead of centuries. You gotta learn to have a little patience. All things come to those who wait. Or go away, if you are a peak oiler.

Now here’s the funny thing: If peak oil is a religion, if you’re going to call it that, then you also have to call the Cornucopians, who don’t believe we will see a peak to oil production, a religion as well. (They even have a sort of religiousy name.) The Cornos (just to give my spell check another spit-spewing spasms), take it on faith that big oil and technology will save us all, whether you are believer or not. (At least they aren’t picky about who they save.) They proudly point to the oil industry’s history of always being able to find more oil, and always being able to deliver the goods. So far. Okay, you can’t argue track record. You can’t buck history. But history ain’t the future, Spanky.

The guy that originally brought up this whole “peak oil as a religion” thing did so to make the point that peak oilers were a rather intolerant lot, and not prone to hear the other guys’ side of the story. They don’t care much for dissension in their ranks, but then again, that can be said of just about any group of humans on earth, religious or not. No one likes to have to argue their beliefs. We each believe what we believe, and my beliefs are not yours. Yours are not mine. And that’s ok. It all comes down to Russell’s Teapot versus The Flying Spaghetti Monster: Just because you can’t prove me wrong doesn’t mean I’m right. Just because I can’t prove myself to be right doesn’t mean I’m wrong. Only time will judge both sides of the case and offer a ruling. Eventually. Maybe.

When it comes right down to it, both sides of this coin are taking it on faith. Both have to believe what they think is right. But no matter what they do believe, in the end, only one of them goes home a winner.

I think I’ll stick with Lao Tzu.

Monday, August 9, 2010

The Boy Who Cried “PEAK!”

For every person out there that thinks the world’s supply of oil will some day peak, there’s another person even further out there that is just as sure it won’t. These are the “Cornucopians”, who see the earth’s supply of oil as virtually inexhaustible. This “Oil Forever” camp can be roughly divided into three broad groups: You have your Economic Cornucopians that believe that demand (price) creates product, the Techno-Cornucopians that are sure that technology will save us and provide a never-ending supply of energy, and my personal favorites, the Chewy Nougat Center Cornucopians that are convinced that the center of the earth is full of “abiotic” oil. I kid you not.

And every one of these wonderful, thoughtful shiny people are more than happy to point out that the people that predict peak oil have been predicting the peak of oil for a very long time. Like for over a hundred years. And it hasn’t happened yet. (As far as we know.) People that do predict the peak of global oil are very often accused of crying wolf. “Remember the boy who cried wolf”, they will say, with a smile and a wink and a sort of knowing nod to dismiss anyone so foolish as to think that we might some day run low on oil. Perish the thought, if not the thinker.

So I’ve been thinking, and here’s my thought for the day: Yes, people that believe that we might some day run low on oil are very much like the boy that cried wolf, but not for quite the same reason. The boy cried wolf because he craved the excitement. We cry wolf because we lack complete, accurate data and must, for lack of a better world, guess at what we are seeing and what it all might mean.

The funny thing is, those that accuse us of crying wolf forget how the story ends. At the end of the story, there’s a wolf, and people don’t listen.

Life imitates art yet again. Woof, woof.