“What did we do to deserve this?” BP CEO Tony Hayward
If you haven’t seen the CBS 60 Minutes report and you care about the Gulf of Mexico, take the time to watch now. I know this isn’t all the evidence that’s going to be collected on the debacle, and this eyewitness testimony nor the engineer’s observation are of themselves conclusive. But I’ll be damned if I haven’t heard the same story over and over from corporations that damage things and kill people. They screwed up not to make a profit. They already do that fine in the normal course. It’s just to make the profit greater and quicker.
We must choose. Regulations can be unwieldy, inefficient and expensive. The lack of regulations or the failure to enforce them results in even bigger problems, not the least of which include explosions, an oil volcano and death.
In my view, Mike Williams is a national hero for coming forward.
Bonus Quote of the Day:
“What did we do to deserve this?” –virtually the entire population of the Gulf Coast
“The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page.” St. Augustine
TB read an article on Budget Travel’s website this weekend titled “15 Places Every Kid Should See.” It was interesting, but once I got to percolatin’ on the topic, I found my list was a lot different, and not only because it extends beyond the border. The LS will only be under TB’s iron hand for another fifteen years. We travel a lot, but suddenly I feel a little panicky, because that’s not nearly enough time to show her everything we’d like. Oh well, we’ll pick ’em off one at a time and see where it leads. Here’s my list, always subject to change:
Washington D.C.–The article specified the Lincoln Memorial, which I thought was silly not only because the Lincoln Memorial is kind of boring but because ALL of the D.C. landmarks are essential. Besides, I like Jefferson’s better.
New York City–The article I linked again got specific, naming Ellis Island and Ground Zero on its list. I’ll buy those, but mainly I just want her to be there and soak in the energy and the vibe of the place.
Glacier National Park, MT–Along with Hawaii, in a totally different way, this is the most beautiful place I’ve been so far. It will still be beautiful when the glaciers are gone in ten years, but different, and a little sad.
Hawaii–Because in addition to a hundred obvious reasons, she can learn how to surf. Such knowledge will only make her all the more formidable.
Skiing in Switzerland or Austria–For the beauty, for the thrill, and for the experience. I want her to feel at ease in foreign countries and among foreign speakers, and to see that there is a lot of world out there to justify keeping a current passport forever.
The waterfall in Phoenix, Mississippi. Because Phoenix is where one line of her people came from and because that waterfall holds such a prominent place in my own childhood memories.
Tahiti–It is the most exotic and far away place I can think of to visit, I’ll only go once, and I want her to be there with me.
Alaska–The most beautiful place the Rambler has been. And it would be cool to catch the Northern Lights.
Highway 1 through Northern California, then onto 101 up through Oregon–With the top down, the ultimate American Road Trip.
Belize–I’ve been reading about lost Mayan ruins, hidden waterfalls, water cave tubing, jaguar sightings and monkey accompaniment. Sounds like a gas.
Costa Rica–An active volcano, beautiful beaches and jungle adventure (with ziplines) in a place where the National Parks are supposed to be spectacular.
Disney World–But only once. Before she’s five. And once more before she’s twelve. And that’s it.
San Francisco–So she can stare blankly at anyone who rants about how San Francisco values are ruining our country.
The Bahamas out islands–Everyone should know the joy of perfect beaches beyond the sight of condominiums or mansions and beyond the sound of a muffler.
Whatever single place she can dream up that she thinks would be the most unlikely place she will ever see. If its accessible by plane, train or automobile, we’ll get her there.
Last week I happened to see a show about Emmitt Smith and his efforts to trace his genealogy. I was fascinated and it led me to dig out a stack of old xeroxed papers some distant cousin gave my Dad at family reunion many years ago. From those papers I went next to the internet where it so happens some other distant cousin in North Carolina has already done a lot of work on my family tree. Tracing through the line of my Great-grandfather, I read about some amazing exploits of ancestors in the late colonial and revolutionary eras.
The highlights include a direct descendant, Archibald who served as an interpreter for a treaty between the Cherokee nation and the President of the United States in 1794. That would be George Washington. This guy’s son, Archy, was a scout for American forces against the British in the War of 1812 in Georgia. Leading the ambush of a small British force, he personally captured their commanding officer. The officer was soon released, probably in an exchange, and came back to the site of the ambush to burn the town. In the process he captured Archy’s sister and spirited her off to Pensacola. Archy went to Pensacola alone where he saved her and engineered their escape. All of this was recorded in official reports and government records. Pretty cool.
Anyway, one of the chief sources of information for family researchers is the headstone of an ancestor. If you can find it, you can often confirm at least their date of birth and death, and often the names of their parents or even a note on their military service, occupation or social organizations (such as the Masons). I know that “my people” came to Mississippi by 1818 and settled around Yazoo County shortly after. And, I know the cemetery where all the recent generations rest. I’ve been there many times, but never to look for the early pioneers. So today, with not much going on at the office, I set out for Yazoo, travellin’ back in time to see what I could find.
It turned out the cemetery only dated back to 1866. I suspect the original church was burned in the War and the graves it hosted are now hidden in the woods, but who knows? I thought I could probably find some other graveyards, so I went explorin’. I took pictures of what I found. Unfortunately, I didn’t find the tombstones I was looking for, at least not today. But I had fun looking. Hope you enjoy.
“Why don’t you say something righteous, and hopeful, for a change?” –Oddball
It’s a strange thing. TB hasn’t been in school for almost fifteen years. The Little Scamp won’t start for a few months more. It shouldn’t matter. But it’s in my DNA I guess. School’s out in these parts in about three weeks. Just knowing that somehow makes me happy.
Maybe its because there’s a whole lot of unhappiness shaking up our collective karma these days. In no particular order, we’ve got the oil spill, deadly tornadoes, a world economy still on the (Dear Lord, Please forgive this terrible news junkie pun of which I am about to commit. Amen.) hedge of the cliff, and Rentboy, among others, and when you mix it all together its a foul soup. It can be difficult these days to maintain a positive mental attitude. Something good needs to happen to get those positive waves flowing again.
And so I look to the children. I believe they are our future, by the way. If they are anything like young TB was, the approach of summer vacation will unleash a powerful force of optimism upon a world that needs it. I’m not sure what kids are into for fun these days. But I bet being out of school allows them a lot more time to do it. There are some things, I am confident, that never change.
And if any of you old-timers can recall how sweet it was back in the good ol’ waning school year days when history class meant watching “The Blue and the Gray” all week; when visions of nine o’clock neighborhood spotlight filled your forecast; when the glory of donning your town’s colors under a blistering summer sun dominated your daydreams; when the great summer holiday and midway point of July 4 was too far away to even contemplate; when days filled with crawdad catchin’, golfball huntin’ and whiffle ball tournaments were near enough to plan; when the numbers to your locker combination could be once and for all forgotten (though unbeknownst to you at the time you’d wish one day in your recurrent nightmares they weren’t); when your base burn was in place and your tan was settling in; when boredom and rainy days seemed impossible; when your shoes could be set aside for the duration; when you could envision precisely where to cut out those new paths in your woods; well, if you can recall these things and a hundred other feelings just like them, maybe it’ll help the kids build that wave of positive energy, and maybe that wave will help us get past these hard times that are upon us. Hell, it can’t hurt.
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Me and Oddball hate them negative waves….
And I gotta add the song….this’ll make you smile, at least do a little chair dancin’….go on admit it.
“Most loathsome events become humorous tales with the passage of time.” –Jimmy Buffett, from “Tales From Margaritaville”
From the archives….
Six foot two, one hundred and twenty pounds, a permanent sneer, pale skinned, hair hanging down closer to his ass than his ears and one helluva beer drinker. Greekson had taken it easy for some reason that night, for reasons I’ve long since forgotten. Probably had a six-pack or so, just to have something to occupy his nervous hands while he waited on his opponent to shoot and miss so he could get back to sticking all the solids in those gently sloping, nearly worn cloth pockets that characterized the particular billiards room we frequented in those days. He was also the finest automobile operator I have ever known. Smily and me, we were drinkin’ a lot harder, so naturally, Greekson volunteered to drive. “I’m fine. Y’all get in.”
So we did. And fifteen minutes later we all saw the dizzying blue lights in the distance, the tell-tale signs of a roadblock. “Turn off Greekson,” we implored. There was a twenty minute detour we still had time to make to avoid the trouble ahead. “I’m fine,” said Greekson. “Y’all just sit still and shut up. And put those beers down.” And he was fine, least he was by our standards. But the law, well, the law sees things its own way. They took his skinny ass to jail. The cop just shrugged when I said, “you really want ME to drive the rest of the way?” They were getting their numbers, that’s all that really mattered.
Greekson had never been to jail before, not even the drunk tank. He wasn’t drunk either, so he was fully mindful of his predicament as he handed over his shoes and belt and looked over his shoulder at the half-dozen new roommates he was about to meet. There was one cot. Upon it lay a very large man, with tattoos and muscles and scars. He was holding his package with one hand, beneath his orange jumpsuit and snoring loudly. A couple of benches lined the walls but there was no room for him so Greekson sat off to the corner in the only space available, on the floor, right next to the toilet. It smelled bad. He tried not to see it. He sized everyone up and knew there was damn little he’d be able to accomplish among them, but Greekson was a philosophical sort, so he just stared blankly but alertly around the room and considered the folly of volunteering the good deed of driving us all, now several hours ago, and wondered what we were doing.
We were still drinking and toasting Greekson’s loyalty and working on these two girls we knew and trying to find out how to get Greekson out of the drunk tank as soon as possible because that was no place for him and scrounging up the hard cash to bail him out from all our friends at five a.m. ten bucks at a time.
His thoughts were interrupted when a tray of fried bologna and egg sandwiches were shoved through a slot in the door and everybody grabbed one. Except for Greekson. He had no appetite. And the big guy. He was still snoring.
By and by the next biggest dude in the room, an athletic black guy with an unkempt, out of style afro and a probable attitude problem (if looks were any indication) got up and shuffled toward Greekson. Or maybe the toilet. In the moment, Greekson couldn’t be sure. Either way, it was not a positive development. He stood over Greekson and looked down at him menacingly. Greekson just cut his eyes upward, defiantly, inquiringly. The dude turned his head toward the man on the cot. “He gonna wake up soon.” There was a pause while that probability sunk in. “You with him, or us?”
Greekson looked over at the scars and the tattoos and the muscles, then straight ahead and then back at the inquisitor. “I’m with y’all man.” What else could he say? He would later tell us there was a part of him curious if he’d have stood by that pledge if it came down to it.
“You gonna eat yo’ bologna?”
“Nah, man, its yours.”
An hour later or so, Smily and I stepped carefully over the threshold of the Starkville jail and triumphantly slammed down our hundred and eighty-five bucks, mostly in fives and ones, with about a dozen quarters. Greekson could hear us from the tank, but he showed no emotion or any other sign of recognition to his cellmates. Our slightly overloud, partially slurred demands that he be released immediately to our custody reached his ears and in spite of himself he had a little hope that the night would soon be over. At the very least he stood to pick up a little company. Then he heard the steel grating on steel and allowed his natural sneer to replace the blank stare as the jailer motioned for him to leave.
The big man began to stir with the commotion and Greekson noted the nervous looks of the remaining allies as he strutted out the door. “So long, suckers.” He flipped the hair away from his eyes and nodded crisply at the forlorn prisoners in his wake. He took one look at us when he emerged from the back and said “I’ll drive” and nothing else until he woke up many hours later and we admired the rising sun together and I wondered idly how we’d find beer money for the next week or two.
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Johnny Cash, telling about and singing “Starkville City Jail”
“History is a set of lies agreed upon.” Napoleon Bonaparte
TB has diligently research-i-pedia’d the history of Cinco de Mayo today in order to enlighten and entertain myself and hopefully those of you travellin’ through the TBU. It turns out the holiday, widely ignored in Mexico, commemorates the victory of 4000 Mexicans over a superior force of 8000 Frenchmen at the Battle of Puebla in 1862. And I suppose this is precisely the reason Mexicans, with ready access to tequila without need of a special occasion, think little of the day. After all, who hasn’t whipped the French.*
Before I go on, let me make clear one thing. I’m cool with the French. I dig the permissive sexual mores, the rich, languid culture of food, the hidden signs at the Louvre, Hemingway’s years there and Pepe Le Pew, among other notable achievements. In fact, I look forward to visiting the country some day and determining for myself whether a French waiter’s sneer is more offensive than a McDonald’s teenager’s shuffle. And I never uttered the godawful phrase “freedom fries”, even when I was mad at Pierre for opposing the US invasion of Iraq. Oh, and I don’t even know why they call them Froggies, so I don’t.
But let’s face it. The French–the culture that produced the greatest general ever and the baddest ass teenage girl general ever, the nation that brought all of Europe to heel once and whose ancient conquest of England centuries before that changed the world, and whose assistance after 1776 ensured the very existence of America–this great people have been on a losing streak in the game of war. And it all started with the humiliating loss to the Mexicans on cinco de mayo, 1862.
A recap of the French misfortunes of war since that time, again thoroughly research-i-pedia’d by moi:
Franco-Prussian War–1870-1871; Lost. Alsace-Lorraine went to Prussia. Worse still, the German states united.
World War I–1914-1919; technically they won. What did they win? Hmmm. ‘Bout all I can think of is the 42 surviving males under 60 had very little competition for the ladies. Oh wait, I think the doughboys and Hemingway ended up with most all the mademoiselles.
World War II–1939-1945; again they get the win on a technicality. What most people remember about this rousing victory is that they managed to pull it off from beneath a jack boot heel. Oh, and this time the Americans ended up with the Frauleins instead.
Algerian War–1954-1962; technically they lost because Algeria expelled them. Ironically, this can arguably be seen as their greatest triumph of the century.
Indochina Wars–mid 20th Century; lost Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia. What’s worse, America was finally unable to overcome its close association with French military disasters and has been on a strategic losing streak ever since. Thanks France.
It ain’t pretty, kind of like an (here it comes) old French whore. (This is where a video of Garth Brooks as “Coco” the Old French Whore would be linked if I could’ve found it.)
With all this in mind as you head off to your local Mexican joint and for a few hours forget how much you hate illegal immigration, consider eschewing the margaritas in honor of America’s original ally. It really is kind of low to be having too much fun on a day that commemorates nothing of import for the winners, but inaugurated an era of infamy for the losers. So please, a little respect for the home of the little general (digression–isn’t it ironic the/their greatest general was ultimately a loser?). Skip the tequila. Order up a pitcher of sangria instead.
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*Though it takes away from the humor I find in the new knowledge that today commemorates a Mexican Army victory over the French, I must note, lest you get into a debate during your third round of sangria this evening, that the French actually recovered from the loss on May 5 and eventually occupied Mexico City. They installed Emperor Maximillian and presumably collected the money they were sent to collect. So they “won.” Then again, they abandoned the country a few years later to the previous Mexican leadership because we “asked” them to. Guess they couldn’t count on us to save ’em if they got into a war with, um, us.
“He was a bold man that first eat an oyster.” –Jonathan Swift
Friend and frequent yet invisible citizen of the TBU “Little Boy” met up with TB at the tail end of Jazz Fest this weekend. As we sat catching up near the Lagniappe stage the doors actually locked us in. But we weren’t leaving until we finished our beer. And Little Boy was polishing off a plate of raw oysters. He paused on the last one and asked me to take this picture. We call it “The Last Oyster in New Orleans.”
The Last Oyster in New Orleans
Who is Little Boy you ask? Sorry, I could tell you, but he’d have to kill me.
“The sea is the sea. The old man is the old man. The boy is the boy and the fish is a fish. The shark are all sharks, no better or no worse.” –Ernest Hemingway
TB’s been reading up on the big oil spill, like most folks I know who care about the Gulf Coast. One thing has stuck in my craw here the last couple of days. At least three articles I’ve read start off with some variation of “the sharks are circling.” “Sharks”, meaning, lawyers, folks like me.
In a way, I get where they are coming from. When you litigate for a living, you are to some people’s way of thinking prospering off the misfortune of others. It’s true. Same as its true for doctors who would find very little to do with all their clipboards if not for the sick and injured. Same as firemen who would surely grow tired of sliding down the pole and feeding that lazy dalmatian if they didn’t need to go put out fires in someone’s home that didn’t want it there. Same as hardware salesmen who are collecting for hammers and nails money that the buyer would surely rather be saving for that trip to Bora Bora some day. But no doctor I ever met was happy to see anyone get sick. No firemen are hoping to see smoke rising from a nearby neighborhood. No hardware salesman is hoping the gate on your fence falls off. But they know these misfortunes are going to occur and they know that most people can’t respond to their own problems alone. So they learn how to fix things and in exchange for the fixin’ they get paid. Same as me.
I guarantee you if I could go back in time and prevent that oil rig explosion I’d do it. If I could keep the fishermen from losing their livelihoods, the seafood joints from closing and the property values of everyone nearby from plummeting, I’d do it. But I can’t. BP could have done it if they’d operated their damn rig properly.
Now, in the midst of working to contain the damage, they have set in to motion a subtle publicity blitz aided by a willing pro-corporate media apparatus that includes shifting blame for their own malfeasance to the lawyers, like me, who are contacting those we know and offering our services to help them recover from the losses that are sure to come. Worse, they are trying to trick people. Many of the fishermen who have volunteered to help with the cleanup have been forced to sign various waivers and agreements that are to the benefit of BP. At an informational town hall meeting in Bayou Le Batre, Alabama, the company offered to settle the claims of the folks in attendance for up to $5000.00 so long as they didn’t hire lawyers. Fortunately, these scams were caught and nipped in the bud by some lawyers and those waivers will not stand; while city leaders attending the so-called informational meeting in Alabama stood up and wisely advised their fellow citizens to obtain representation before signing anything.
So let me summarize. BP’s rig blew up. People died. Oil spilled. A helluva lot of oil is continuing to spill and the company doesn’t really even know if they can stop it. One of the worst environmental disasters in history is unfolding because of their mistakes. They respond to the widespread suffering sure to be inflicted upon Coast residents by simultaneously enlisting their help and attempting to trick them into losing their rights to recover damages. And so naturally that makes lawyers the sharks.
So be it. I’d rather be a shark than a dirty rat, errr, a dead turtle errr, BP.
“I always tried to turn every disaster into an opportunity.” –John D. Rockefeller
TB knows some of y’all have been waiting for this. Yes, I’m outraged. And now is where I launch into my anti-oil industry, anti-drilling spiel. Not so fast. (Everybody together now…) You can’t pigeonhole me.
I favor American oil production on land and at sea. I do not favor it in the National Parks or in pristine, fragile environments that are thus far unexposed. However, even there, I don’t think we should permanently close the door on future oil production. I take the moderate viewpoint. Leaving oil production to the unfettered discretion of the oil companies is folly, as is shutting down offshore drilling entirely. What is called for is intense governmental regulation and oversight of production facilities. If we didn’t know before, we damn sure do now. The industry is not up to the task of policing itself. With the many billions in quarterly profits flowing to Big Oil, an immediate and substantial surtax on these profits should be adopted to (a) help the American consumer (b) fund the regulatory system that will force compliance with the highest technologically available safety standards possible (c) provide for a specialized superfund for cleanup of the current spill and future ones and most importantly (d) invest in not just alternate energy research, but implementation of currently existing solar and wind technologies at the consumer level. By this I mean beginning immediately a national federal initiative to install solar panels and/or wind turbines on all federal buildings and subsidizing the use of these technologies for use by private citizens. And immediately beginning construction of high speed regional passenger rail. And quickly moving to a 40 mile per gallon or better fuel standard for newly constructed vehicles.
Yep, it’ll be a high tax. They can afford it. And they owe us. That trillion dollar plus per year military budget is paid for by us. What’s it needed for? To protect our oil sources and our supply lines around the world above all else. In other words, to protect and ensure Big Oil’s ability to make billions in profit each quarter.
Getting off the oil won’t be done quickly. If we start now with common sense ideas like those I outlined and others, we will still surely need at least a couple of decades to effectively reduce our usage. The problem is, so many people find these type ideas radical and so many people find the idea that we’ll still need oil while we’re changing our culture radical. No, friends, the moderate, sensible position here is to drill. Carefully. And to move away from drilling with all due haste.
Meanwhile, we who love the coast watch and wait. And hope for the best.
A week ago Saturday the Little Scamp took a big spill. She split the skin open on her brow bone above her left eye. Her grandmothers were keeping her at the time, so they rushed her to the Emergency Room of a very well thought of hospital in an affluent, highly educated community to have the wound properly cleaned and closed. They didn’t have to wait very long, which was nice. And after providing TB’s insurance information and home address at least four different times (the bill must not be delayed), they saw a friendly young doctor. The friendly young doctor slapped some Dermabond (basically super glue) on the wound, admired the already blackening shiner and declared the child fit and fixed. Except that it turns out she was not fixed. He did a crappy job, otherwise known as “medical error” or sometimes the commission of “medical malpractice”. Two-thirds of the wound was not closed. But we DID get the bill for a hypothetical afternoon of proper treatment. They did, after all, have highly trained people with address-obtaining skills.
So yesterday we took the LS in to have the scabbing and scarring wound scraped out and re-treated. Basically she had to be re-wounded and stitched back up. It is the most routine of routine procedures, except with a frightened three-year old the doctors need to put her to sleep. The chances of anything terrible happening to a healthy child under anesthesia are remote. These odds did nothing to comfort me as I drove her to the doctor. I really can’t say anything more about that. Irrational, perhaps, but very real fears. They make me shudder even today as I reflect on how well everything went.
As we waited to be called back after the procedure was finished, I had an array of disconnected thoughts travellin’ through my brain:
How much I loathed all these medical personnel–docs and nurses–going about their day as if it was just another day at the office and not realizing they had the most important patient of their lives under their care for the next hour.
How much I loved and appreciated all these medical personnel–docs and nurses–for making the L.S. laugh and letting her listen to her own heartbeat and making her excited to wear her surgical mask and hat and for being well-trained and experienced and professional. As much as I disagree with their politics and as much as I fear and loathe the job they do, I have to say I like almost every medical professional I’ve ever known.
How the phrase “in stitches” is a damn dubious way to describe laughter, because stitches are in no way whatsoever humorous.
How funny the L.S. was when she got “drunk” on the medicine they gave her before taking her back. Looked a bit like her old man I’m afraid.
How pissed I was that lawyers get the most blame for runaway medical costs when that little pissant at the fine hospital just tripled the cost of the L.S.’s superficial injury. And that I couldn’t and wouldn’t be suing him for his malpractice. And that I’d rather just whip his ass for being lackadaisical with the most important ER patient he will ever see.
How perfect the L.S.’s blank stare was when the anesthesiologist was explaining to her the four quadrants of the heart and how the blood travels through them. Looked a bit like her old man I’m afraid.
The L.S. did fine, as I mentioned, and was back to her rambunctious, head-splittin’ ways by mid-afternoon, though with a bit more parental overprotection than usual. The stitches come out Monday.
To be in stitches is to be in such a paroxysm of laughter as to be in physical pain. The allusion implicit in the phrase is to that of a sharp pain – like being pricked with a needle.
The phrase was first used by Shakespeare in Twelfth Night, 1602.
MARIA:
If you desire the spleen, and will laugh yourself into stitches, follow me. Yond gull Malvolio is turned heathen, a very renegado; for there is no Christian, that means to be saved by believing rightly, can ever believe such impossible passages of grossness. He’s in yellow stockings.
Despite the usage in Shakespeare, the phrase didn’t become established in the language and there are no other records of it until the 20th century. This entry in The Lowell Sun, in July 1914, is the earliest non-Shakesperian record that I can find:
“There’s a new face among the members in Ben Loring, a natural-born comedian, who seems to have no difficulty whatever in keeping his audience in stitches of laughter and glee.”
Travellinbaen 