How the Dollar Rules the World — and Why That Power Now Threatens America from Within

Reading Time: 13 minutes

Authors Note: A great introduction to MMT can be found at https://findingmoneyfilm.com/. I suggest it as a prerequisite to the essay that follows.

Part I. Flow and Disruption

Author’s Note: This is not original research, but the result of an extended conversation with ChatGPT, in large part fueled by my interest in Modern Money Theory (MMT) and a desire to understand how a reserve currency operates at the simplest level. If you are interested in a deeper dive, I suggest reading “The Deficit Myth,” by Stephanie Kelton.

When an American buys a television, a phone, or a pair of shoes made overseas, it feels like a simple transaction. Money leaves your account, and a product shows up at your door. But behind that everyday purchase lies one of the most powerful — and most misunderstood — engines of the modern world. That engine is the U.S. dollar.

For decades, the United States has enjoyed a unique position in the global economy. It can buy physical goods from the rest of the world in exchange for pieces of paper — or more precisely, digital bank entries — that it alone has the authority to create. Other countries not only accept these dollars; they actively compete to earn them.

On the one hand, this system has brought enormous benefits to Americans, including low prices, global influence, and access to a nearly endless stream of imported goods. On the other hand, it has also produced deep regional inequality within the United States, weakened the social fabric, and fueled a political backlash reshaping American democracy.

To understand why this system persists, why it’s now under strain, and what it will take to repair it, we need to follow the dollar from the moment it leaves your wallet to the moment it circles back as a U.S. Treasury bond — and then trace the social and political consequences that follow, highlighting the dollar’s central role in global trade and domestic stability. What actually happens to the money is far from obvious.

Imagine an American buys a $100 product manufactured in China. The $100 is transferred first to the Chinese exporter’s bank account. But those dollars are not usable inside China. A factory in Guangdong can’t pay its workers in U.S. currency. So the exporter exchanges dollars at the People’s Bank of China, China’s central bank, for the local currency, the yuan.

The exporter now has yuan to operate on the home front. And China’s central bank now holds $100. But even China can’t spend those dollars domestically. They are foreign currency. They’re only good abroad. So what does China do?

It invests them back into the United States. Most often, China uses those dollars to buy U.S. Treasury bonds — effectively lending the money back to the U.S. government. And with this transaction, the dollar has completed its round trip: from an American consumer to a Chinese business to China’s central bank, and finally back to the U.S. financial system.

At this point, you can see that something unusual is happening. The United States buys physical goods — televisions, cars, electronics — and the dollars it spends end up right back in the country, parked safely in government debt. China, in turn, ends up holding U.S. assets, not goods.

It is worth repeating. The U.S. receives products. China receives dollars. The dollars return home. You can picture this visually as a loop — a flow of money out of the U.S. and back again, powering global trade.

At first glance, this seems like the world’s most favorable deal. And in many ways, it is. But China doesn’t do this out of generosity. It does it because the system serves its interests just as powerfully as it serves America’s.

If China can’t spend dollars internally, why does it still accumulate them by the trillions? Because the arrangement delivers crucial benefits.

First, it delivers jobs. Export industries employ tens of millions of Chinese workers. Social stability depends on employment; employment depends on exports; and exports depend on a competitive currency. China buys dollars and holds Treasuries in part to prevent the yuan from rising and making its products more expensive abroad.

Second, it delivers industrial growth. Exporting manufactured goods has been the backbone of China’s modernization. Earning dollars gives China the ability to buy foreign machinery, semiconductors, food, and, most importantly, oil — none of which can be purchased with yuan.

Third, it delivers financial protection. Large reserves of dollars and Treasuries help China defend its currency during global shocks. They are a buffer against crisis.

So while it may seem odd that China ships products to the U.S. in return for claims on American debt, those claims are central to China’s economic strategy. The system is not charity; it’s a calculated partnership.

For the United States as a whole, buying foreign goods cheaply is a clear win, but not everyone wins equally. Over time, the steady flow of inexpensive imports, made possible by the dollar’s global dominance, contributed to the erosion of American manufacturing. Factories closed, and jobs disappeared. Some regions reinvented themselves, but some never recovered.

This weakens the U.S. from within. This regional decline created something more profound than economic loss. It produced:

  • wounded pride
  • declining local services
  • fraying communities
  • intergenerational pessimism
  • anger at both elites and institutions

The anger is not abstract. It is political fuel. Places where jobs disappear become places where trust in government collapses. That collapse feeds populism, which in turn destabilizes American institutions, from foreign alliances to democratic norms, and makes the U.S. a less predictable global actor. This, in turn, undermines international confidence in the very system that supports American power.

This is the danger: A system that economically strengthens America as a nation is politically weakening it from the inside. Escaping this negative cycle doesn’t require dismantling global trade or abandoning the dollar’s central role. Instead, it demands policies that redirect the benefits of America’s financial power into rebuilding communities and addressing systemic issues.

Since the United States has unmatched financial capacity, it should use that capacity to rebuild the social foundation that keeps the whole system stable. This means focusing not on protectionism but on resilience:

  • investing in workers whose industries are disrupted
  • supporting communities left behind by global shifts
  • building strategic industrial capacity at home
  • modernizing infrastructure
  • reducing political incentives for polarization
  • stabilizing the country’s role on the global stage

It also means reframing the purpose of America’s financial power. Issuing the world’s currency is a privilege. It should not be used solely to inflate asset prices or finance private consumption. It should be used to reinvest in the public goods, education, health, infrastructure, and innovation that make American society strong.

The United States, more than any nation in history, can finance its own renewal. It can borrow in its own currency. It can attract global savings on demand. It can run trade deficits without destabilizing its exchange rate. These are extraordinary advantages.

But the preservation of this system depends on the social cohesion that underpins it. Without a stable domestic base, global leadership becomes harder to sustain. Alliances become shakier. Markets grow more nervous. The political pendulum swings more violently.

If America continues on its current path, in which the economic benefits of global trade are not broadly shared, then the dollar system will erode, slowly but inevitably. Not because China destroys it, but because Americans lose faith in the structure of their own society.

The choice is simple. Use the extraordinary privilege of the dollar equitably, or watch that privilege slip away. There is no need to surrender the benefits of the dollar as a reserve currency as long as the bellows of inequality are dismissed. The global system runs on trust, and trust begins with a society that believes in itself.

Part II. The China Syndrome

Authors Note: The rest of this article was added as an addendum in response to the observation They (most people) feel like we have to get rid of that debt or China is gonna come take us over because we owe them so much.”

Every few years, headlines warn that China “owns our debt,” implying that the United States is financially beholden to its biggest creditor. The image is dramatic: America, one market tantrum or a militarily motivated financial attack away from collapse. From the standpoint of MMT, that story misunderstands how a sovereign currency works. The U.S. doesn’t borrow from China. China saves in U.S. dollars. And that distinction changes the entire picture.

When China buys a U.S. Treasury bond, it is not extending credit, as a bank does when it lends money to a borrower. It is simply exchanging one form of dollar asset (reserves) for another (a Treasury bond) to earn a bit of interest. In simpler terms, it is changing a checking account into a savings account. Operationally, China’s dollar holdings never leave the Federal Reserve system. They are entries in a spreadsheet representing the dollars China has already earned from exporting goods to Americans. So instead of “China lends, America borrows,” the more accurate phrasing is: “China saves in the currency that America alone can issue.” That’s not dependence. Its interdependence is built on the United States’ unique monetary position.

Foreign Treasury holdings are the mirror image of America’s trade deficits. Every time the U.S. runs a trade deficit by importing more than it exports, another country ends up holding the dollars it receives. Those dollars must go somewhere. They don’t pile up in warehouses or disappear. They are recycled into U.S. financial assets. From an accounting point of view, the U.S. “national debt” is simply the record of all those accumulated savings. It’s the flip side of the world’s desire to hold safe, liquid assets. Seen through that lens, the question isn’t What happens if China calls in its debt?The question is What are we doing with the real resources and productive capacity that this global savings makes possible?

The United States owes nothing that it can run out of. It owes dollars, which it alone can create. What it cannot print are the things that dollars are meant to mobilize:

  • engineers and teachers,
  • bridges and energy grids,
  • functioning institutions,
  • and a cohesive public willing to work toward shared goals.

From an MMT perspective, those are the proper limits of American power. A nation that can issue its own currency can never be forced into insolvency. But it can run out of trust, competence, and productive energy. And those deficits — not the financial ones — are the real danger.

Privilege leads to complacency. The dollar’s role as the world’s reserve currency has insulated Americans from many of the pressures faced by other nations. The U.S. can import goods cheaply, borrow without fear of default, and sustain persistent deficits that would bankrupt smaller economies. But that very privilege can dull the impulse to invest in domestic productivity. Why rebuild factories or trains when the world is eager to send you goods in exchange for paper assets? Why strengthen social insurance when foreign savings keep interest rates low? Over time, this convenience becomes a trap. The U.S. has grown accustomed to buying everything except social stability.

If MMT is correct, we are worried about the wrong thing. America’s problem isn’t “debt.” It’s the underuse of its own productive potential — both physical and human. A country that issues the world’s reserve currency has enormous fiscal space. But that space is wasted if it’s used to inflate asset prices rather than build capacity — if it finances share buybacks instead of semiconductor fabs, speculation instead of education, or political polarization instead of social trust. The fundamental constraint on American prosperity isn’t the Treasury’s balance sheet. It’s the nation’s ability to mobilize resources for a shared purpose.

Let’s reframe the national balance sheet. Imagine the national balance sheet as having two sides: financial liabilities on one side and tangible assets on the other. On the financial liability side, the U.S. owes the amount of the treasury bonds held by the world; on the tangible asset side, the American people, infrastructure, industry, and institutions. We worry endlessly about the left side — the dollars and bonds. But the value of those liabilities is guaranteed by the strength of the right side. When the right side erodes — when education falters, bridges crumble, and trust decays — the left side becomes riskier, not because the U.S. can’t pay, but because its society can’t hold together. That’s the paradox of the dollar system: the stronger America’s financial dominance grows, the more it must consciously reinvest in the social and productive base that makes that dominance legitimate.

MMT doesn’t deny limits; it relocates them. The accurate measure of solvency for a sovereign currency issuer is not its ability to pay, but its ability to produce, govern, and cohere. If foreign savings represent the world’s confidence in the dollar, then every broken bridge, underfunded school, and disillusioned voter is a silent drawdown on that confidence.

In the end, the global savings glut sitting in Treasuries is not a sign of American weakness. It’s a sign of trust — trust that the U.S. will remain a functioning, stable, productive society worthy of holding claims against. The risk is not that China will cash in those bonds. The risk is that America will stop deserving that trust.

Part III. The 10-Point Plan

Authors Note: I lied. There is an addendum to the addendum—time to move beyond China. I wanted to factor in the environment, AI taking over the job market, and the continued imbalance between developing and developed countries into the MMT conversation. After all, not much of a plan if it doesn‘t address the significant social and environmental issues confronting the world. A friend once asked me what I would do if I were king of the world. The 10-point plan is my answer (until the next addendum, anyway).

If the valid constraint on a sovereign nation is not money but real resources, then we must define those resources broadly. They are not only labor, machines, and raw materials — they include clean air, stable climates, fertile soil, biodiversity, and the human trust that allows societies to function. In this light, America’s reserve-currency privilege is not just an economic tool. It is a planetary responsibility. The dollar system, after all, organizes the world’s production, consumption, and debt. Its architecture shapes how we treat both people and the planet.

Three global challenges make this clear: environmental externalization, technology and the future of work, and ending the extractive relationship with developing nations.

Free trade agreements and global supply chains have allowed wealthy countries to consume goods without accounting for the pollution embedded in their production. Factories that once polluted the Midwest now pollute Southeast Asia. The carbon, however, doesn’t respect borders. This is a hidden cost of the dollar system: the U.S. runs trade deficits in goods, but trade surpluses in pollution. The externalization of environmental damage props up the illusion of low prices at home while degrading the global commons that underpins all economic life. If MMT tells us that real resources, not money, are the limit, then climate stability is the ultimate fundamental constraint. The atmosphere cannot be bailed out with dollars. No fiscal space is infinite if the planet’s carrying capacity collapses. A reformed global monetary system would therefore measure deficits not just in dollars, but in ecological terms. America’s “full employment” must mean employing people to heal, not merely to produce — restoring soils, building green infrastructure, rewilding damaged land, and decarbonizing energy.

For a century, productivity gains have come from augmenting human labor with machines. But AI marks a turning point: it can replace labor entirely in many sectors. The traditional MMT prescription of a job guarantee, government employment at a living wage to ensure full labor utilization, might stabilize society in the near term. Automation will ultimately make “jobs for all” economically redundant. When machines can perform nearly all marketable tasks, the purpose of income shifts from rewarding work to ensuring participation in society. At that point, a Universal Basic Income (UBI) becomes not just welfare but economic infrastructure — the digital bloodstream that keeps demand, creativity, and dignity circulating. UBI, funded through sovereign currency issuance, is entirely consistent with MMT principles. It provides a baseline floor of aggregate demand, preventing collapse when private employment shrinks, and allows people to pursue education, caregiving, art, and community projects outside the wage system. The challenge is not affordability — the U.S. can issue the dollars. The challenge is designing a moral economy where productivity gains from AI are shared rather than hoarded.

The international monetary order still rests on colonial logic. Developing countries borrow in foreign currencies they do not control, often dollars, and are forced into austerity when export revenues fall. The result is a global pattern in which the periphery exports cheap labor and raw materials, while the core exports debt and financial instability.

MMT offers a different lens. Every country that issues its own currency has fiscal space limited only by its real resources and productive capacity. The problem is that most developing nations lack monetary sovereignty: their currencies are not trusted globally, so deficit spending risks capital flight and currency collapse. If the U.S. wants a stable, equitable world order — one less vulnerable to debt crises and migration pressures — it could extend proxy monetary sovereignty to partners. That means providing direct access to dollar liquidity for investment, not as loans tied to austerity, but as cooperative credit for development, climate adaptation, and infrastructure. Call it a Global Green Credit System: nations could run moderate, MMT-style deficits in a stable reserve currency while building real capacity at home. Instead of the IMF enforcing fiscal contraction, an international public bank could finance growth in ways that are ecologically sustainable and locally governed. This would replace the extractive global balance — dollars for sweat and minerals — with a regenerative one: dollars for development, resilience, and shared prosperity.

Here is a ten-point plan to meet the full scope of our economic, ecological, and moral responsibilities.

1. Insure People, Not Sectors

Build a resilient social foundation: universal healthcare, robust unemployment insurance, childcare, and transition income for displaced workers. Security enables adaptation.

2. Create a Dynamic Job Guarantee

Guarantee public work at a living wage in fields that rebuild the nation’s real wealth — renewable energy, conservation, caregiving, and civic infrastructure. Employment becomes a tool for regeneration, not make-work.

3. Develop a Path to Universal Basic Income

As automation advances, phase in a permanent income floor. UBI ensures that technological abundance translates into human freedom rather than precarity. Productivity gains become public dividends.

4. Invest in Real Productive Capacity

Direct federal spending and public investment toward strategic industries: semiconductors, energy storage, AI governance, biomanufacturing, sustainable agriculture, and logistics. Deficits that build capacity are not costs; they are investments in resilience.

5. Anchor Growth in Environmental Accounting

Integrate carbon, biodiversity, and pollution metrics into fiscal and trade policy. Use the dollar’s power to set global green standards — rewarding nations and firms that internalize ecological costs. Monetary sovereignty means environmental responsibility.

6. Rebuild Infrastructure for a Sustainable Century

A Green New Deal scale transformation: high-speed rail, a smart grid, water systems, reforestation, urban cooling, and flood defenses. Public investment is both a climate mitigation and an employment engine.

7. Democratize Technological Progress

Treat data, AI models, and essential digital infrastructure as public goods. Establish public options for AI services and open innovation platforms to ensure that technology amplifies human welfare rather than concentrates wealth.

8. Reform Global Finance for Shared Sovereignty

Work with allies to create regional clearing unions or dollar proxy systems that allow developing nations to run safe deficits in pursuit of full employment and a green transition. Replace debt traps with development credit lines tied to real outcomes, not austerity targets.

9. Rebuild Political Cohesion at Home

Adopt electoral and campaign reforms that reduce polarization and capture. Social spending must be matched by democratic renewal — people must see that government works for them, not just for markets.

10. Use the Dollar for Regeneration, Not Extraction

Reimagine the “exorbitant privilege” as a global stewardship role: If the world saves in dollars, those dollars should fund planetary healing, human flourishing, and shared security. Fiscal capacity is moral capacity.

In the end, MMT’s insight is not that money is infinite, but that our imagination of what’s possible has been artificially constrained. A nation that issues the world’s reserve currency can marshal resources on a scale unmatched in human history. The question is no longer “Can we afford it?” but “What do we choose to build?” If we use that power to restore ecosystems, share technological prosperity, and rebuild social trust — then the dollar’s global role becomes not just an instrument of hegemony, but a tool of regeneration. If we fail and continue treating money as scarce while the planet and people are expendable, then no financial architecture will save us.

The Parable of Lazarus and the Shipping Magnate

Reading Time: 2 minutes

There was a man named Lazarus, the son of a fisherman, who lived on the shores of a once-pristine island. The waters had once been as clear as glass, the reefs vibrant with color, and the fish abundant and fat. But those days were long gone.

Every morning, Lazarus would recline in his sun-bleached beach chair, its legs buried deep in the warm sand, gazing out at where the horizon should have been. But there was no horizon anymore—only an endless procession of steel behemoths. A twenty-mile parking lot of bunkering freighters, supertankers, cruise ships, tugboats, ferries, and oil tankers, all waiting to feed on the monstrous peninsula of oil storage and berthing ports. The air reeked of diesel and sulfur, while the water, though still shimmering in the sun, carried a sickly sheen.

One day, overcome by the heat, Lazarus stood up and walked to the shoreline. The waves lapped at his feet, warm and familiar, whispering promises of refreshing relief. He dove in.

At first, the water embraced him as it always had. But as he swam farther, that embrace turned sour. A slick of oil clung to his skin. The sting of chemical discharge burned his eyes. Beneath him, the reef was silent—no fish, no movement, only the bleached skeletons of what had once been. Lazarus struggled, coughing, his limbs weak from the poison seeping into his pores. He cried out, but no one listened.

Far above, on the highest deck of the grandest yacht in the bay, the shipping magnate feasted. His table groaned beneath the weight of delicacies flown in from a world away, and his wine glass brimmed with the finest vintage. He laughed and toasted his guests as his fleet filled their bellies with crude oil and sent their filth into the waters below.

And then, Lazarus was gone.

When death came, it bore him away to the cool embrace of the unblemished deep, where the currents flowed pure, where whales still sang, where the ocean’s heart continued to beat strong.

But the shipping magnate, in his time, also met death. And when he opened his eyes in the afterlife, he found himself standing upon the very shore he had defiled. The sand burned his feet, the air choked his throat, and the water—oh, the water—was as black as tar, boiling with the waste of his empire. He saw Lazarus far off, resting in the arms of the ocean’s forgotten gods, and he cried out:

“Lazarus! Have mercy on me! Dip but a finger in clean water and cool my tongue, for I am tormented by this poison!”

But a voice answered him:

“Did you not feast while others choked? Did you not build your fortune upon the ruin of the sea? The waters you abandoned are the waters you must now endure.”

And the magnate wept, but no tears fell—only a drop of oil.

Author’s Notes:
Inspired by a visit to the island of Lazarus off the coast of Singapore and the biblical parable.
Assist by ChatGPT.

Superbowl

Reading Time: < 1 minute

The Superbowl is a manifestation of the American Dream, played out on a field of neon and violence, a microcosm of the country’s endless pursuit of success and excess.

– When I asked ChatGPT what Hunter S Thompson would have to say about the Superbowl.

Mo Hi Ba Yo!

Reading Time: 7 minutes

One thousand kilometers, maybe more. Eight days of riding more than eight hours a day. We all survived. We made the trip without death or injury or seeing any death or injury!

Mo Hi Ba Yo! (Một – Hai – Ba – dô)

Mountain Trail (An Easy One)

I had one real moment of fear. We left Dong Van to a drizzle and wet roads. The roads turned into mountain-hugging sidewalks barely wide enough to pass two bikes. On one hairpin-dropping turn and going no more than 15 to 20 kph, my back tire took the turn by sliding a couple of feet. I’m sure the slide would have looked fantastic on a video. But the fact is I didn’t mean to do it. Chris says sliding the back tire is okay, but you have to worry when the front tire slides. I was worried anyway. This sidewalk narrowed to a ledge no more than two feet wide with hairpin turns. Sometimes the fall to the outside was protected by bamboo, sometimes not. I walked the dropping hairpin turns on the bike, not trusting my ability to do a 180-degree turn smoothly enough without going over the edge. Even walking the bike, I was sweating and anxious. Then we came to a dropping turn that went left 90 degrees, dropped, and then went right 90 degrees and dropped some more.

Hoan’s bike, Hoan was our guide, slid both front and back tires when he did it and when he reached a stopping point, he put up the X signal with his forearms meaning for us not to do it. Hoan walked back up the path to help. Chris walked his bike down with Hoan holding the back end. I said, “Fuck It,” jumped off the bike, and told Hoan to take it down. It was only about a twenty-foot section, but trying to help by holding on to the back end to keep it from slipping off the path, I slid on my slick motorcycle shoes down the twenty-foot stretch of slippery path. I had a lot of internal dialog, recalling a teacher’s advice to use fun as your guide to managing risk. It was the one time during the trip I was not having fun. That narrow ledge was way outside my comfort zone, and that dropping wet stretch with the turns was beyond my ability. But in the end, no injury and no dropped bike. Just a shake of my head and a massive sigh of relief.

Mo Hi Ba Yo!

We had other stretches outside my comfort zone but not my ability, about which I can’t say I was particularly thrilled. I would describe those stretches more as work than fun. We had to drive through several construction zones, basically off-roading stretches with operating machinery, dust, and big ass trucks. I’ve done a lot of scree riding on my KLR 650 in the outback of the California deserts. Scree isn’t particularly fun to ride in, as the steering starts feeling loose and sloppy. Usually, a little speed is your friend as rocks fire out from under your tires as long as you don’t overpower a turn. 

We had one sustained downpour for two hours which we powered through. I wiped the rain from my helmet visor with my gloved hands. Orange rivulets crisscrossed the road, and I venture to say that the orange-colored water buffalos marching down the road were much happier than I was. By the time the rain stopped, it had soaked through my socks and gloves, but all the rain gear kept me dry otherwise. The rain wasn’t cold, and the clothes dried quickly during the rest of the ride. Misty clouds moving through the trees and mountains make for incredible scenery, but I wouldn’t take my eye off the road for more than a second to appreciate it. 

We had one other rainy day. Conditions were sloppy from time to time, but the rain was light. We saw one truck on its side in the ditch at the side of the road on a wet turn. Seeing the driver squatting on the side of the road on his cell phone, I don’t think anyone was injured. I saw a guy with a girl on a scooter in front of me overpower a turn. He was right at the start of the turn crossing over the passing line to the left at the end. Fortunately, nothing was coming from the other direction. That’s the kind of driving that will get you killed.

I was astounded at the roads on which trucks would travel. There is no road too small for one. If I had waited long enough, I’m sure I would have seen one on the two-foot ledge. Big trucks and buses would honk a couple of times before rounding blind corners, where they swept out the pavement outside their lanes. Even the sleeping dogs would move out of the way for those oversized beasts. Often, we would pass these behemoths waiting for a stretch of road long enough to squeeze by them on what little room they offered. No one ended up as bug splat on the grill of one of these oversized road ogres.

Mo Hi Ba Yo! 

Hanoi Traffic (Before Rush Hour)

City driving was a whole different skill set if one can call wading through the chaos a skill. On my first day of adventure to Na Vinh, I returned to Hanoi during rush hour. It was an exercise in walking the bike or, at best, trying to ride it in the 0-5 kph range. The challenge was keeping sight of my guide while not bumping the scooter ahead or stepping on the toes planted to either side of me. Leaving any gap between you and the rider in front of you shows weakness. Five scooters, cars, and buses will all try to fill the vacuum. During rush hour, there are no rules, only guidelines. Scooters shoot through intersections against the light and cross over in front of traffic to get to the other side. Pedestrians walk across the streets, only sometimes signaling the traffic to stop. Huon told us people honk to say hello, meaning to let you know they are there. But a subset definitely uses the horn to bully their way through traffic. It all seems to work based on empirical observation, but I would be shocked if the statistics back those observations.

Mo Hi Ba Yo! 

I had one flat tire obtained inbound through a construction zone to Ha Giang. At least, that is the spot where I thought the bike handled a little slushy. I dismissed it as the silty conditions of the construction site we had to ride through. It turned out to be a rim flat and not a puncture, which suggested the tire might have been flawed from the beginning. I don’t know how long I rode with it because shortly after that, we drove through the outskirts of the town and I became distracted by another problem. I felt a sharp burning sensation in my upper right leg about two inches from my nut sack. I thought maybe the engine was overheating near my leg, but I didn’t see or feel anything on the bike. The shooting pain persisted. When we pulled over for a piss break, I checked under my kevlar pants to discover a four-inch welt with a circular pus spot at its center. It looked like a mini volcano with lava flows. I think somehow while riding at 30 mph, a hornet or wasp managed to land on my leg and stab me through my kevlar pants to deliver its sting. The only upside is that it didn’t impale me in the nuts. I can’t imagine trying to ride with welted nut sac three times its natural size. Thank god for that.

Mo Hi Ba Yo! 

Pedestrians, children on bicycles, roosters, dogs, water buffalos, horses, cows, drying rice, and drying grass, to name a few things, created the target-rich environment. One of the strangest phenomena is the sudden appearance of something that wasn’t in the scene just a second ago. Chris speculates that your mind identifies that brown patch in your peripheral vision as a dog, and suddenly, it pops into your awareness. 

Traffic Jam

Speaking of Chris, he came the closest to running over some chickens, and I am convinced he tapped the ass of a dog. The dog was trotting in the direction of traffic on a city’s busy, four-lane divided road. It veered in front of Chris’s bike. He slammed on the brakes, but I saw the dog’s back end drop suddenly, and then the dog cut over to the median. The rule of thumb is to run over any small, soft creature if it crosses your path and to keep on going. In the calculus of life, the rider trumps the rooster. You don’t risk your life by veering into oncoming traffic or obstacles to save a chicken. Fortunately, it was a decision I never had to make.

Mo Hi Ba Yo! 

Ha Giang Loop Pass

The Ha Giang loop features a beautiful and well-photographed twisting road up and over a pass. But we went up to another mountain pass that I didn’t get a picture of and don’t know its name. It featured nine or ten hairpin turns and ten to twelve percent grades. The road was so steep that I couldn’t take a picture from the top because trees obscured the view. 

I rounded one hairpin turn to a steeper grade, so I wanted to downshift from third to second. Instead, I ended up in neutral. It was the only time I missed a shift on the trip. Instead of speeding up on the steep grade, I was slowing down, frantically trying to get the bike in gear before I stalled. I’m sure the riders behind me were less than pleased. But aside from that misstep, the snaking ride up and the view from the top were fantastic.

Mo Hi Ba Yo! 

And finally, I have to admit to more humility. Riding along mountain-hugging sidewalks trails on my powerful 250cc bike, more than once, a lady passed me on a scooter. One even had a kid in the well. Another teacher once told me to ride my ride and not ride to pride. 

Mo Hi Ba Yo!

But after all that. No, because of all that. Not for a second would I trade my motorcycle for a bus ride.

“Mo Hi Ba Yo” means one, two, three, cheers! Usually, a drink follows. But I am toasting to the ride and all its misadventures and challenges. 

Mo Hi Ba Yo! 

Does It Get Any Better?

Life in the Death Star

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Dear Mom,

I’ve been deployed to the Death Star and will serve out my tour of duty here. Of course, our location is always top secret, so I couldn’t tell you where I am even if I knew.

Life here is pretty good. One doesn’t really appreciate the fact that the Death Star, really more of a Death Moon in size, is one of the largest cruise ships ever created. It’s so big, it creates its own gravity. At about the size of the Earth’s moon, it has a land surface about as big as all of Asia. It has five billion cubic miles of interior. To give perspective on this, imagine people inhabited the entire surface of the Earth to about seven miles deep. That’s a big cruise ship.

Only the first couple of levels at the surface of the ship are dedicated to Defense, uniforms mandatory. Sure, the stormtroopers get all the glamour pinging about with their laser blasters and zooming about in their TIE fighters, but they have to suffer the rigors of a hierarchical command structure and some of those leaders aren’t so pleasant. It mostly looks boring, marching around all the time on the deck and patrolling the hallways. Like, who is going to attack a Death Moon?

The interior is much different. Behind every trooper is ten more support people. The logistics of feeding, housing, caring, and entertaining for a cruise ship of ten billion people staggers the imagination. Of course, a lot of that space is dedicated to infrastructure and most of the processes are automated, but there is plenty of work to do for both man and machine. I am very busy and down here, I don’t have to worry about anyone shooting at me.

The Death Moon as habitat is amazing. It is one of the largest closed systems ever created. Nothing goes to waste. Not one drop of water, not one plop of waste, not one piece of material, not one molecule of air. A lot of terratrashed planets could learn a lesson, the Earth included.

And it’s not all business. You can’t move about intergalactic space, even at hyper velocities, in a day. It takes months to move from one location to another. In the meantime, you have to live. One of the most fun things we do is tube jumping in those huge hollow tubes that go from one side of the moon to the other. The gravity is only about a tenth of that of the Earth’s and the acceleration is about a tenth as fast. The atmosphere gets thick pretty fast so it’s more like swimming through soup than skydiving. Because the air pressure is so intense toward the center, you can’t leap much more than a couple of miles from the surface, even with a suit, before the heat will boil your blood or the air pressure will miniaturize you to the size of a marble. More than a few macho corpses that tried to test their limits are floating down at the center of the moon.

Well anyway, we’re off on another mission ensuring peace through force. Rebel scum can’t be allowed to terrorize the galaxy, can they? I suppose it’s not always a pleasant business but it’s a decent life. What could go wrong?

I hope this letter finds you well.

May the Peace of Force be with you, Your Son

Queen Tide

Reading Time: 3 minutes

With every King Tide comes its opposite, an extremely low tide. Is it a pauper tide? An anti-king tide? Why does more water get to be king and not more beach? Because it throws a temper tantrum of wanton power on rocks protecting the road and boardwalk?

The extremely low tide is royalty, too. So, I hereby declare the extreme low tide as the Queen tide, an opposite of sorts in the ways that are of importance for my purposes. I hope to show her moods and airs and beauty worthy of a queen.

The format for this display is “a sort of American haiku.” (Jose gets credit for the appellation.) I take it to mean to put a little unstructured poetry to a picture, to see it as something more than what is in its bare, wooden frame. That is the theory anyway. Here is the practice.

A willet standing on the safety of an island rock surrounded by the mirage of a submerged cliff dropping to the sky:

The surf backing off from the resting reef rocks:

Plovers pulling out the wrinkles of the unkempt sheet of the sea:

Plover snipping at its mirrored self:

Flock disbanding after patiently watching the end of the day:

Cliffs painted on the ephemeral canvas of a silky shore:

The gaudy rouge of an ancient queen tide:

Pocked chocolate stairway to Olympus of the tides:

Well, that is it. What, you want an encore? Ok, one more just for you. King and queen both, the monarchy of the tides:

North Shore Hodges

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Dying to get out, so to speak, as so many of us are ready to do after six weeks of hunkering, and on a warm, cloudless, contrail-less, blue sky day, I decided to hike the North Shore Trail of Lake Hodges. This is a little piece of trail I missed or wasn’t open yet, back in the days when I hiked the Coast to Crest trail from Del Mar to Julian. The parking lots are still closed due to COVID but there are plenty of access points along the trail just North of the Hideaway on Lake Drive.

I picked up the trail just North of the Hernandez Hideaway, which looked like it was re-opened for business, with people being served at an outdoor table. I followed the trail south to the Lake Hodges dam paralleling the shoreline on one side and the Del Dios highway on the other. The car traffic of the Del Dios Highway is seldom out of earshot but also not visible either, always at a higher altitude than the trail. The foot traffic was light from the Hideaway to the point where the trail joined the gravel road and then non-existent from that point to the dam.

The trail cuts through chaparral, still blooming with carpets and clusters of black mustard, black sage, monkeyflowers, garland daisies, chamise, ceanothus, lemonade berry and at least a dozen other species. The trail skirts around the Olivenhain Pipeline pump house, a water authority project that connects Lake Hodges to the Olivenhain Reservoir. The trail joins with the gravel version of Lake Dr skirting by another facility before turning back into a single track trail in the Del Dios Gorge which funnels into the Lake Hodges Dam.

I saw plenty of birds along the way including a roadrunner, dozens of California quail darting into bushes, hawks, egrets, herons, grebes, hummingbirds, red-winged blackbirds, and a bluebird. The trail stays fairly distant from the shore, so close viewing of the aquatic birds is a challenge, although there are a few access points to the shore. I did come across a cooperative duck or goose with little fear of people that posed for several closeups. I have not yet been able to identify its species.

I thought the sign said three miles from the trailhead to the dam, but I think it was at best four miles round trip. I did it in two hours, stopping to take many pictures along the way. Hope you enjoy.

https://drive.google.com/open?id=1vpWHsRrYOBaNQejC5nuk-Eek6ah3OvnE

Refuge at the Salton Sea

Reading Time: 3 minutes

On a perfect day in April, I rode out to the Salton Sea to escape the coronavirus for an afternoon with Chris, on my GS1200, the bike I was supposed to use on our ride to Prudhoe Bay. The motorcycle is the perfect vehicle for travel in these days of CV. Nothing is shared between you and other riders other than the experience, and maybe not even that, riding in our little shells of helmets and gear.

For a destination, or more accurately a turnaround point, I chose the Sonny Bono National Wildlife Refuge on the southwest corner of the Salton Sea. I had to look up the reason Sonny Bono would get a refuge named after him: he did a lot of work trying to save the Salton Sea in his stint as a congressman before he had his unfortunate encounter with a tree while skiing. The refuge is the perfect distance for a ride, about one tank of gas in either direction. A refuge seems like an appropriate place to go to hide from the onslaught of the pandemic, perhaps the way the birds feel all the time. I selected this particular refuge because it is part of the pacific flyway used by migratory birds in the spring and fall. I wanted to score some pics and be part of the great migration.

At the refuge itself, my Salton Sea experience is consistent with all my other visits: it stinks of decaying fish. The trail is a squared-off dirt and gravel road leading to the uncreatively named Rock Hill. Little spurs off the trail road are marked “Birds only beyond this point.” The path is lined with the yellow blossoms of Palo Verde and the whitish catkins of the Mesquite tree, which is really more of a large bush. Desert quail cackle in the underbrush and desert rabbits crisscross the trail in the distance. A flock of white pelicans takes off overhead in a lopsided V-pattern. Ducks and other water birds hang out in the distance on an island in the middle of the large rectangular pond.

Grampa, showing us the way.

The view from the top of Rock Hill to the northwest features a flattened sea in the foreground, browned-out mountains of the desert in the midground, and the still snow-covered mountains around Palm Springs in the background. To the southeast, the backdrop to the refuge is steam-venting smokestacks, fields of agriculture, and the Glamis dunes in the distance. According to Chris and confirmed by Wikipedia, the plants are part of the Salton Sea Geothermal Field. I counted nine, but Wikipedia claims eleven. The fields are green and the stacks of bailed alfalfa are high. Nine miles south of the refuge is Westmorland, a town of about twenty-five hundred people, living at almost 200 feet below sea level. The Salton Sea is an interesting mix of industry, agriculture, and nature.

Chris points out something my camera can’t capture, pristine blue skies from horizon to horizon without so much as a single contrail to split the sky or single-plane engine to break the silence. Ironically, I’ve had plenty of silence at home over the last couple of weeks and use the opportunity to unload all my insightful observations and takeaways during this rare direct human contact. I also find out that Chris is about to become a grandfather twice over. Of course, I give him a hard time about suddenly becoming older than myself instead of congratulating him, but isn’t that what friends are for?

After the hike, it’s back into the motorcycle capsule to smash a few bugs with my faceplate and ride through the chill of the mountains. The ride out to the desert ends with a return to my house capsule to ride out the rest of nature’s storm.

A Parable of the Starfish Moment

Reading Time: 2 minutes

Kimmy, a young Filipino woman with a 6-year old daughter, lives at the poverty level by any definition someone living in the U.S. could think of, living off of an income of less than 5K a year. Her dad makes a living with a trike as a taxi driver of sorts, optimistically making no more than a thousand pesos a day. With the coronavirus, he has been out of work for a month living on the goodwill of his daughters.

On Easter, her own needs for groceries satisfied, Kimmy’s wish is to help the poor people in the barangay she lives in, on the island of Cebu, near the town of Bogo. She wants to do something. Something for her neighbor, who needs a loan to buy basic supplies. Something for out-of-work locals, who can’t work because of the coronavirus quarantine. Something for babies, who don’t have access to a fresh supply of milk.

With a little outside support, chump change as one called it, she wraps up fifty care packages of rice portions, bread, pancit, and canned goods in pink bubblegum-colored plastic bags. Each care package contains enough food to last a person for one to two weeks. For babies, she buys powdered milk and disposable diapers. She hires a trike driver, loads up all her packages, and distributes them to those in need, the people squatting in barong barong housing, makeshift-dwellings with plywood sides, corrugated rusted roofs, extension cord electricity, and bottled or communal well water.

For her out-of-work dad, Kimmy provides him with something more substantial: a 25kg bag of rice, canned goods, a generous supply of protein in the form of various cuts of meat, and fresh eggs. For herself, she has the happiness of making a difference.

Feeding all the needy people in a time of crisis is a parable of the starfish moment. But the middle of a crisis isn’t the time to start asking for root causes and ferreting out systemic deficiencies. It’s the time for those who are fortunate enough and are able, to put a starfish back in the sea.

North Clevenger Trail

Reading Time: 4 minutes

A solo hike in the outback seems like a good way to socially distance myself especially if distance is a key element in the formula. I wanted to get a hike in before they post a National Guardsman at my door to seal me in until the pandemic passes. It’s spring and it’s green and in San Diego County, the best time to get out for a hike. I settled on Clevenger Trail North, part of the Palms to Pines trail, about ten miles from my house. Mountains in the distance still have some snowpack on them. It’s a cool day under decent cloud cover, a good time to hike up the side of a mountain before it gets too hot and dry.

At the trailhead was a sign to be cautious of aggressive bees. The trail dipped down to the San Dieguito River. The crossing is a bit tricky, there is no bridge. You either wade or you rock hop across some slippery granite rocks. I chose to rock hop. I rousted a few frogs in the process, but they gratefully posed for the camera once they realized I wasn’t going to inadvertently crush them.

The rest of the hike was a two and a half-mile 1400 foot ascent rising up over highway 78 featuring views of San Pasqual Valley to the west and Cuyamaca and Julian in the distance to the east. With a dry February and a wet March, the mountains have greened and the flowers have started their bloom. The smell of spring is in the air. I passed a handful of people over the course of the 5 mile out and back hike. They all gave me a wide berth on the trail, I’m sure for fear of the virus.

Not too far into the ascent, I came around a corner in the trail where I saw bees busily buzzing about a hole in the rock about waist high on the left side, leaning into the hill into what is obviously their hive. On the right side of the trail directly opposite the hive entrance is an overgrown sumac bush which didn’t give much room to pass and bees were active on the flowers of the bush. I tried to daintily squeeze by both without disturbing any of the creatures. My strategy didn’t work. I felt and heard them swarming about my head and it sounded angry. One of the f**kers stung me. I ran my ass off swatting at the bees as they followed me down the trail. There was only a handful of them by my estimation. They followed me quite a distance, maybe a tenth of a mile, before I had either killed them, they stung me, or they got bored of chasing me. I pulled out a couple of painful little stingers. Can you imagine with all the shit going on today that I got got by killer bees? Killer f**kin’ bees. Killer bees aren’t even in the back pages of the newspaper anymore. They are so ten years ago. Haven’t they heard?

I was a bit traumatized thinking about all the shit that seems to be out to get us these days but I managed to put it behind me both literally and metaphorically. I made it to a viewpoint at the top snapping pics of the springtime show along the way. Picks of the hike are here. https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1drrC-hW-H-JIDRWLB89u_Zjs7KAg9_zm?usp=sharingEnjoy.

I wasn’t excited about having to go past the beehive again on the way down. I asked another solo hiker, from a socially safe distance of course, if he had any problems with the bees. He said he hadn’t noticed the hive but he mentioned that some girl said she was stung a couple of times too. I wondered why they didn’t like me. I noticed the guy was khaki’d out in all white and grey. Maybe the killers don’t like blue. I had on a blue t-shirt and blue jeans. Maybe they hate blue flowers and I look like a much-hated giant blue flower.

By the time I neared the hive, I had a plan. I had an airline blanket in my backpack that I use to protect my camera. I didn’t take any pictures of the hive so I didn’t think they were mad at the camera and wouldn’t try to sting it. I put the blanket under my cap, sheik style, I wrapped myself in the blanket to protect my exposed parts, and put on my dark sunglasses, trying to do an imitation of the invisible man, when he wants to be visible, which of course is what I didn’t want to be. The downside of my plan was that the blanket is solid blue. So now I looked like an even bigger bluer flower.

When I got to the hive, I chose not to be dainty. I hurried past the opening without arousing any interest that I could detect. So the killer bees didn’t kill me and neither did the hike, though my body issued a few protests. And now I’m back into hiding from all the other things trying to kill us.