To all you dads out there, I hope your Father's Day was as enjoyable as mine. My beautiful daughters treated me to an air-conditioned cabana at a local beach resort, complete with flat screen TV on which to watch the U.S. Open when I wasn't sunning by the pool. Not too shabby! They even sprang for a couple shots of Padron! Speaking of the Open, what a performance by the young Mr. McIlroy! Perhaps Tiger finally has a worthy opponent.
If you're a golfer, or a fan of golf, you probably know that our national championship, the United States Open, concludes (weather permitting) on Father's Day each year. It's a tradition that has made watching the Open just a little more special. This year, Gerry McIlroy, Rory's father, was right there beside the 18th green to witness his beloved only-child complete a rare, record-setting wire-to-wire victory. After sinking his final putt - eight shots clear of his closest competitor - Rory trotted off the green and into his father's warm embrace, a father who sometimes worked three jobs to support a young Rory's burgeoning links career. Now that's a helluva Father's Day!
The U.S. Open is televised on NBC, and a key member of the broadcast team is analyst Johnny Miller, himself an Open champion and the holder of the lowest final round ever shot in a U.S. Open (his spectacular 63 at Oakmont in 1973). Miller is known as a no-holds-barred commentator who is not afraid to skewer his fellow linksmen if he believes they deserve it. His candor, along with his expert observations have made him one of the most highly regarded analysts in all of sports, let alone golf. He is also known as a spiritual man, and a devoted father and husband, who, like millions of young men, was taught the game of golf by his father.
During yesterday's broadcast, Miller commented that the highest calling for a man is that of being a father. Amid the excitement of watching a record-setting performance by a sweet-swinging, fast-rising young Northern Irishman, Miller poignantly added perspective that elevated the moment, and the broadcast, without sounding preachy. And he's right, of course. As much as we men may see ourselves as providers, or heads of household or protectors, or whatever traditional or macho descriptor you can think of, there is no more important role we will ever play than that of father. Johnny Miller, you're the man!
So, happy belated Father's Day, dads. I hope your kids are as wonderful and special as mine. They're adults now, but they'll always be my kids. I'm honored, proud and humbled to be their dad!
T. Stauffer, Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Monday, June 20, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
A New Day. A Different Point of View. An Easter Tale.
I last posted to this blog in July - nine months ago. At that point, I realized the whole "blogging thing" had come to represent something I didn't want (or need). It had become a chore. I have enough chores; didn't need one more. So, I took a break - to rethink and regroup. No timeline for a return, if at all, but hopeful. In the interim, I've had plenty of time to reflect on why I began blogging in the first place and what I had hoped to accomplish by doing so. I've come to several realizations:
- I have a new and profoundly greater respect for people who earn their living writing every day.
- Being creative, clever, witty, topical and/or informative every day - or even simply on a regular basis - is, at best, difficult and challenging. At least it has been for me.
- Blogging anonymously while using the forum to make critical social commentary is gutless and it is irresponsible. It's voyeurism at it's most base, and it has become all too common in the blogosphere. I wasn't adding value, and I was becoming (more) cynical.
- I should be writing NOT because I need to get something off my chest (better left for the confessional or shrink's couch), but because I need to write. And because I want to share.
So, I'm back. Less negative social commentary - unless it's self-deprecating. Topics that are more upbeat and hopefully uplifting. (I'm predisposed to sarcasm, so I will endeavor to resist the temptation - unless it would genuinely contribute to humor.) Off I go.
I celebrated Easter this past weekend like millions of others around the world. In and of itself, that's not significant. However, one element of our family's celebration stands out that some people might find interesting. My adult son and daughter - ages 19 & soon-to-be-22 respectively - requested an Easter egg hunt. When my wife informed me, I was like, "Are you kidding?" Suddenly, my cranky side emerged. Why? Because selfishly, the last thing I wanted to do for the umpteenth consecutive Easter morning was trudge around my dew-covered yard, dodging piles of dog you-know-what, and trying to find yet another batch of clever hiding places in which to stash stupid little plastic eggs, while my big kiddies slumber away the morning.
How many years have I been doing this? Twenty, if not more! Next thing you're going to tell me is they also want us to leave a couple carrots out overnight for a certain Mr. E. Bunny! Get outta here! They're registered voters for crying out loud! Once more, instead of relaxing on the lanai with a steaming mug of java and my morning paper, seranaded by the osprey, cardinals, mocking birds and redheaded woodpeckers, I'll be attempting to conceal a hundred-or-so (seems like a thousand!) annoying plastic orbs in which Mom has graciously inserted varying amounts of our hard-earned cash and clever little fortune-cookie-like notes, all so that my overindulged offspring can cling ever-so-tightly to their youth. Bah humbug!
As I rounded the corner of the house for what seemed like the 50th time, trying to find one last hiding place for one last egg, and by now sweating like I just spent an hour in a sauna, it hit me. So what, ya big Scrooge? So what, if your still-living-at-home adult children want to race around the yard like a couple of giggling adolescents trying to beat each other by collecting the most eggs? Why the hell not? Have you paid attention to all those headlines and stories you read every day in your precious newspaper? Being a grown-up isn't all it's cracked up to be these days, Daddy-O. So what, if your kids want to be kids again for an hour on Easter morning? Cut 'em some slack! On Monday they go back to trying to find their way in a very complicated world and being held accountable like the rest of us. God bless 'em for wanting to hold on to a little piece of happier, simpler times! Rue the day when they ask no more! (Wow, self-served humble pie for breakfast. So mature!)
Well, I found a place for that last egg. Then Mom and I went about our remaining Easter Day chores: she, tidying up the house and filling vessels with Cadbury eggs, jelly beans and other tasty morsels, and I, preparing our Easter feast. As it turns out, hours would pass before the kids finally set out for the hunt (young adults keep late nights, you know!). They didn't roll out of bed until early afternoon, and there was the task of coloring real eggs first. Finally, mid-afternoon, as I was preparing to put the lamb on the grill, bags in-hand, they rushed outside and for the next hour or so, my grown-up kids were simply big kids. In typical fashion, Big Sis - she being "the competitive one" - hoarded more eggs than Li'l Bro (it seems to have become a tradition at some point), and secured bragging rights for yet another year. The odds were in her favor that she'd have the egg containing the $5 bill, and sure enough, as she pried open what seemed like her 500th egg, there he was: Honest Abe. Momentary glee (not the TV show), followed by a look of genuine satisfaction. Across the room, all Little Brother could do was shake his head, toss back a few more jelly beans and hope for better luck next year. Soon, we shared an excellent dinner, then, fully sated, I retired to the lanai for a cigar, another glass of wine and the company of my back-to-being-a-young-adult son and his guitar. Not a bad way to finish the day.
You know, maybe next year, I'll request that they hide a few eggs for me.
Happy to be writing again,
T. Stauffer, Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Friday, July 23, 2010
What Gives You The Right?
I've commented before in this blog about what I perceive as the ongoing and relentless deterioration of civility and common decency in our society. I've used terms like narcissism and self-entitlement in reference to the behavior I witness - on what seems like a daily basis - among my fellow citizens who seem to think everything and everybody was put on this earth for the express purpose of satisfying and serving them. It happened again this week.
My daughter, God love her, worked hard to graduate in less than four years from college, and accomplished that in December of last year, earning a bachelor of science degree in the field of hospitality management. Like many of her peers and friends, she could have stuffed a backpack and headed for Europe, Eurail pass in hand, and bummed around for a year. Instead, she prepared to start her first post-graduate job, just six weeks after finishing classes, and in the midst of the worst job market since the 1930s. If you sense just a teensy weensy bit of pride in my tone, bank it. I couldn't be more proud.
She accepted an hourly position with a highly-regarded, upscale, international lodging company in the hope of eventually earning a promotion into management. In her front-line customer relations capacity, she deals with guests all day, every day, and it is in this capacity that she has borne witness to, and been the target of, some of the most aberrant and disrespectful behavior one could possibly imagine. And from whom? The top one tenth of one percent of all income earners. The haves. Yes, the very people one would think would, a) know better, and b) have been taught better, and c) had been raised better.
Thankfully, my daughter can handle herself, but even she has been amazed and discouraged by the borderline abusive manner in which these over-indulged, over-pampered "guests" treat the employees at this luxury resort. It is not uncommon for guests to literally scream at her because their room wasn't ready, even though they arrived hours before standard check-in time, or because the valet didn't bring their car around quickly enough. Screaming, in broad daylight, in front of God and everybody. To them, I say, what gives you the right?
Is it because you make more money than 99.9% of the rest of us? Because you're paying a premium price for premium accommodations and you think you deserve even better? Or is it the chip on your shoulders you carry around like a badge of courage because you've come to the realization that all the money you worked so hard for - or inherited - hasn't made you any happier, any less stressed, any more appealing or any more enlightened. But hey, who cares, you've got a black AmEx card! You expect a room upgrade because the bellman didn't open the door fast enough when you arrived or because the hand towels weren't folded perfectly in the shape of a sea shell or because a cloud blocked the sun for 2.7 minutes today while you lounged by the pool. You want your bill adjusted because the complimentary bottled water in your complimentary stocked refrigerator wasn't quite cold enough, nor was it Evian. Give me a break!
There is a bevy of adjectives in the English language used to describe such people. Snooty, uppity, boorish, self-important - the list goes on and on. There's also a fair number of adjectives to describe us poor bastards who have to put up with all those self-important, snooty, uppity boors, but the ones that I believe fit my daughter and me best are beleaguered and beseiged. I love these two words not only because they are so expressive and I'm a writer, but because essentially they are dead-on. They mean having a lot of problems or criticism to deal with. Like most average Americans these days, we have enough problems. We don't need overbearing, overindulged Dolce & Gabbana-draped whiners making matters worse.
I raised my children to live by the Golden Rule, and while we may not live up to that standard 100% of the time, we endeavor every day to come as close as possible. It totally astounds me then, that people who seemingly have everything going for them in terms of what our society deems successful, would treat others with complete and utter disregard for all that the Golden Rule represents. How did they get to be so nasty? More importantly, how did they get to be so successful? It's just more evidence that you can be the biggest a-hole on the planet and do one thing well, and the world will beat a path to your door. Me, I'm still going to live by the Golden Rule, and if it doesn't bring me riches, so be it. I'll shuffle off this mortal coil satisfied that I, at least, did right by my fellow man.
As for all you self-entitled, snooty boors out there, take it down a notch or three and eat a couple pieces of humble pie. If you don't, you might end up with a double room upgrade, but it won't get you any closer to the gates of heaven. Karma has a way of working things out.
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin
My daughter, God love her, worked hard to graduate in less than four years from college, and accomplished that in December of last year, earning a bachelor of science degree in the field of hospitality management. Like many of her peers and friends, she could have stuffed a backpack and headed for Europe, Eurail pass in hand, and bummed around for a year. Instead, she prepared to start her first post-graduate job, just six weeks after finishing classes, and in the midst of the worst job market since the 1930s. If you sense just a teensy weensy bit of pride in my tone, bank it. I couldn't be more proud.
She accepted an hourly position with a highly-regarded, upscale, international lodging company in the hope of eventually earning a promotion into management. In her front-line customer relations capacity, she deals with guests all day, every day, and it is in this capacity that she has borne witness to, and been the target of, some of the most aberrant and disrespectful behavior one could possibly imagine. And from whom? The top one tenth of one percent of all income earners. The haves. Yes, the very people one would think would, a) know better, and b) have been taught better, and c) had been raised better.
Thankfully, my daughter can handle herself, but even she has been amazed and discouraged by the borderline abusive manner in which these over-indulged, over-pampered "guests" treat the employees at this luxury resort. It is not uncommon for guests to literally scream at her because their room wasn't ready, even though they arrived hours before standard check-in time, or because the valet didn't bring their car around quickly enough. Screaming, in broad daylight, in front of God and everybody. To them, I say, what gives you the right?
Is it because you make more money than 99.9% of the rest of us? Because you're paying a premium price for premium accommodations and you think you deserve even better? Or is it the chip on your shoulders you carry around like a badge of courage because you've come to the realization that all the money you worked so hard for - or inherited - hasn't made you any happier, any less stressed, any more appealing or any more enlightened. But hey, who cares, you've got a black AmEx card! You expect a room upgrade because the bellman didn't open the door fast enough when you arrived or because the hand towels weren't folded perfectly in the shape of a sea shell or because a cloud blocked the sun for 2.7 minutes today while you lounged by the pool. You want your bill adjusted because the complimentary bottled water in your complimentary stocked refrigerator wasn't quite cold enough, nor was it Evian. Give me a break!
There is a bevy of adjectives in the English language used to describe such people. Snooty, uppity, boorish, self-important - the list goes on and on. There's also a fair number of adjectives to describe us poor bastards who have to put up with all those self-important, snooty, uppity boors, but the ones that I believe fit my daughter and me best are beleaguered and beseiged. I love these two words not only because they are so expressive and I'm a writer, but because essentially they are dead-on. They mean having a lot of problems or criticism to deal with. Like most average Americans these days, we have enough problems. We don't need overbearing, overindulged Dolce & Gabbana-draped whiners making matters worse.
I raised my children to live by the Golden Rule, and while we may not live up to that standard 100% of the time, we endeavor every day to come as close as possible. It totally astounds me then, that people who seemingly have everything going for them in terms of what our society deems successful, would treat others with complete and utter disregard for all that the Golden Rule represents. How did they get to be so nasty? More importantly, how did they get to be so successful? It's just more evidence that you can be the biggest a-hole on the planet and do one thing well, and the world will beat a path to your door. Me, I'm still going to live by the Golden Rule, and if it doesn't bring me riches, so be it. I'll shuffle off this mortal coil satisfied that I, at least, did right by my fellow man.
As for all you self-entitled, snooty boors out there, take it down a notch or three and eat a couple pieces of humble pie. If you don't, you might end up with a double room upgrade, but it won't get you any closer to the gates of heaven. Karma has a way of working things out.
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Happy 234th, USA! Now Pass the Potato Salad!
Happy 234th Birthday, America! Ever wonder what we'd be cooking if this holiday fell in, say, October? I mean, the 4th of July conjures up images of Weber grills, red-and-white plaid tablecloths, watermelon, potato salad, burgers, brats and my favorite - ice cold beer. But what if Independence Day was on, say, October 13th? (Imagine, celebrating a holiday every few years on Friday the 13th! Picture Jason with a chainsaw in one hand, a sparkler in the other and his hockey mask painted red, white and blue!)
I know, that's sick. But hey, cut me some slack. When it's been pouring rain in what's known as the Sunshine State for the past 3 1/2 days and one finds oneself stuck in the house - again - on what should be a day of picnics, parades and cookouts, one's mind has a tendency to wander (and wonder) a bit!
Seriously, for those of you who, like me, associate food with every joyous occasion, from graduations to weddings, holidays to birthdays, anniversaries to sporting events - and generally most Sundays through Saturdays - what we eat on these special days is an important part of our culture (not to mention our waistlines!). In your mind's eye, picture that third Thursday in November. That's right, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, etc., etc. December 25th? Ham for some, lamb or a standing rib roast for others, roast beast if you're from Whoville.
New Year's brings us pork and cabbage washed down with Moet. March 17th - although not a legal holiday - finds us filling our plates with corned beef and (once again) cabbage, and slurping copious amounts of green beer (or Guiness for you purists). In our house, Easter marks the return of ham and lamb, and come the fourth Monday in May, we're firing up the grill for - you guessed it - more burgers and brats. After all, Memorial Day heralds the start of summer, and what's summer without charcoal and lighter fluid? Besides, we need practice for that cookout-occasion-of-all-cookout-occasioins, the 4th of July, a mere five weeks in the offing. By Labor Day (the third in the triumverate of cookout holidays), we should be well-practiced and ready, by God, for a throw down with Bobby Flay!
So, on this the second official cookout holiday of the summer, rain or no rain, I'd like to take a moment to pay homage to the fine tradition of chowing down on holidays. Whether you choose traditional fare or opt for more exotic, ethnic, or religiously-relevent palate pleasers on your holidays, I wish you all good eatin'! Now pass the potato salad and say a prayer for our Gulf Coast brethren in Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi and Florida's Panhandle who don't have much to celebrate today. May your BP checks have lots of zeros preceding the decimal point!
. . .Wishin' I Was Fishin'
I know, that's sick. But hey, cut me some slack. When it's been pouring rain in what's known as the Sunshine State for the past 3 1/2 days and one finds oneself stuck in the house - again - on what should be a day of picnics, parades and cookouts, one's mind has a tendency to wander (and wonder) a bit!
Seriously, for those of you who, like me, associate food with every joyous occasion, from graduations to weddings, holidays to birthdays, anniversaries to sporting events - and generally most Sundays through Saturdays - what we eat on these special days is an important part of our culture (not to mention our waistlines!). In your mind's eye, picture that third Thursday in November. That's right, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, etc., etc. December 25th? Ham for some, lamb or a standing rib roast for others, roast beast if you're from Whoville.
New Year's brings us pork and cabbage washed down with Moet. March 17th - although not a legal holiday - finds us filling our plates with corned beef and (once again) cabbage, and slurping copious amounts of green beer (or Guiness for you purists). In our house, Easter marks the return of ham and lamb, and come the fourth Monday in May, we're firing up the grill for - you guessed it - more burgers and brats. After all, Memorial Day heralds the start of summer, and what's summer without charcoal and lighter fluid? Besides, we need practice for that cookout-occasion-of-all-cookout-occasioins, the 4th of July, a mere five weeks in the offing. By Labor Day (the third in the triumverate of cookout holidays), we should be well-practiced and ready, by God, for a throw down with Bobby Flay!
So, on this the second official cookout holiday of the summer, rain or no rain, I'd like to take a moment to pay homage to the fine tradition of chowing down on holidays. Whether you choose traditional fare or opt for more exotic, ethnic, or religiously-relevent palate pleasers on your holidays, I wish you all good eatin'! Now pass the potato salad and say a prayer for our Gulf Coast brethren in Louisiana, Alabama, Mississippi and Florida's Panhandle who don't have much to celebrate today. May your BP checks have lots of zeros preceding the decimal point!
. . .Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Friday, July 2, 2010
Palin Doing Her Best Dan Quayle Imitation
They say imitation is the highest form of flattery, so I'm guessing Dan Quayle is feeling pretty good about himself these days. Come on now, tell me you didn't notice Sarah Palin does a damn good Dan Quayle. There are inescapable similarities, you know, so it only makes sense. Danny boy always positioned himself as a conservative Republican. Check. When Bush The Elder tapped the obscure senator from Indiana as his running mate in '89, the average voter had never heard of him. Ditto Sarah. Dan became Vice President. Sarah got close. Dan was famous for gaffes and sometimes buffoonish behavior. Need I say more?
There was Sarah, speaking to a crowd at a university fundraiser in California recently, and adroitly tapping her obviously-cavernous knowledge of an icon of Republicanism, Ronald Reagan. After all, what better place to invoke the name of The 'Ol Gipper than before a receptive group of Golden Staters? "This is Reagan country," Sarah practically shouted, "and perhaps it was destiny that the man who went to California's Eureka College would become so woven within and interlinked to the Golden State." Huh? It's bad enough she used the phrase "woven within and interlinked." (Maybe she thought she was addressing a knitting convention?) Apparently she gets her information from bad Wikipedia entries, because those who know even a modicum of modern history know that The Great Communicator was born and raised in Illinois; graduated from Eureka College in Eureka, Illinois; then started out as a radio sports announcer down the road in Davenport, Iowa. Any of those places conjure up images of wine country and Rodeo Drive? Apparently the four colleges Sarah attended purchased their history and geography textbooks from the same guys who make Chinese drywall!
So, there she was, in all her glory, poised to wow her audience on the grounds of that hallowed institution of higher learnin', Cal State University - Stanislaus, cleverly working Reagan into her remarks, completely oblivious to the fact that she really knew diddly about our 40th president. I bet if you asked her who John Hinckley, Jr. is, she'd say, "Isn't he the dude who shot John Lennon?"
You know, I used to think (or is it fear?) that there's a legitimate chance enough ignorant Americans are out there to actually get Sarah Palin the Republican nomination for President in 2012. Now, I pray that there are, because one of two things will happen: the electorate will get exactly what it deserves, giving Letterman, Leno, Kimmel, Fallon, Ferguson, et. al., enough material to last a decade, or, Palin the Pretender will once and for all be shown the door, and she'll retreat back to the igloo from whence she came, never to be heard from again. ("Not on my watch!" exclaims Rupert Murdoch.)
Until then, we'll just have to settle in for a steady diet of Quayle-esque quips and quotes from the Queen of the Northern Lights, always reaffirming that now-ubiquitous observation, "only in America," (or Italy). Sarah, darlin', you go, girl!
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin'
There was Sarah, speaking to a crowd at a university fundraiser in California recently, and adroitly tapping her obviously-cavernous knowledge of an icon of Republicanism, Ronald Reagan. After all, what better place to invoke the name of The 'Ol Gipper than before a receptive group of Golden Staters? "This is Reagan country," Sarah practically shouted, "and perhaps it was destiny that the man who went to California's Eureka College would become so woven within and interlinked to the Golden State." Huh? It's bad enough she used the phrase "woven within and interlinked." (Maybe she thought she was addressing a knitting convention?) Apparently she gets her information from bad Wikipedia entries, because those who know even a modicum of modern history know that The Great Communicator was born and raised in Illinois; graduated from Eureka College in Eureka, Illinois; then started out as a radio sports announcer down the road in Davenport, Iowa. Any of those places conjure up images of wine country and Rodeo Drive? Apparently the four colleges Sarah attended purchased their history and geography textbooks from the same guys who make Chinese drywall!
So, there she was, in all her glory, poised to wow her audience on the grounds of that hallowed institution of higher learnin', Cal State University - Stanislaus, cleverly working Reagan into her remarks, completely oblivious to the fact that she really knew diddly about our 40th president. I bet if you asked her who John Hinckley, Jr. is, she'd say, "Isn't he the dude who shot John Lennon?"
You know, I used to think (or is it fear?) that there's a legitimate chance enough ignorant Americans are out there to actually get Sarah Palin the Republican nomination for President in 2012. Now, I pray that there are, because one of two things will happen: the electorate will get exactly what it deserves, giving Letterman, Leno, Kimmel, Fallon, Ferguson, et. al., enough material to last a decade, or, Palin the Pretender will once and for all be shown the door, and she'll retreat back to the igloo from whence she came, never to be heard from again. ("Not on my watch!" exclaims Rupert Murdoch.)
Until then, we'll just have to settle in for a steady diet of Quayle-esque quips and quotes from the Queen of the Northern Lights, always reaffirming that now-ubiquitous observation, "only in America," (or Italy). Sarah, darlin', you go, girl!
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Friday, June 25, 2010
Who Needs the Three Stooges? We Have BP!
It's been nearly a month since my last blog, in which I lamented the BP oil debacle, and as expected, the oil has now reached our Florida shores - no longer as mere tar balls, but as shiny, black, gooey, toxic waves relentlessly rendering the pristine beaches in Pensacola an utterly hideous hue. Next stop, Panama City! And while this is happening, BP manages to allow a robotic submersible to accidentally knock off a cap on the mile-below-the-surface gusher so that the volume spewing out practically doubles! Hell, who needs Larry, Curly and Moe when you've got BP! I'd laugh if it wasn't so damned tragic!
In short order, we will move well beyond any descriptive conceivable by even the most creative of poets and linguists. We will stand, mouths agape, voices silenced by the sheer magnitude of what lay before us. While the world tries to go about its business - blaring vuvuzelas signaling another World Cup come to South Africa - we cannot push the Gulf oil disaster to the back pages. It simply won't allow us to. From loose-lipped generals and history-making marathon matches at Wimbledon, to Tiger Woods' impending divorce and a Republican titan of corporate corruption running for governor of Florida, these are merely sideshows that steal a headline or two. THE story, now and for months, if not years, will be the GOM - the Gulf of Mexico.
Yesterday, a photograph in the St. Petersburg Times showed a thirty-something man kneeling on a once-pristine beach crying into his hands as the oil spread before him in both directions as far as the eye could see. This native Pensacolan, the article went on to say, had been taught by his father how to swim in the warm waters off this very beach, and it is where he, in turn, had taught his own son to swim. No more. Fathers won't be teaching sons or daughters to swim in these waters any time soon - if ever again.
You know, I've always considered myself a pragmatic optimist, if there is such a thing. I try to look at the bright side, yet I understand the limitations of man and our inclination toward self-indulgence and self-enrichment. So, not a lot surprises me, good or bad. When the former CEO of the largest for-profit hospital company on the planet, a company fined over a BILLION dollars for ripping off Medicare while he was CEO, throws his hat in the ring for the Republican gubernatorial nomination in Florida and proceeds to spend his way to the top of the polls in a little over ninety days, I simply shrug my shoulders and go about my business. I mean, the guy never went to jail, or was even indicted for that matter, so why not empty a few mil out of the ol' money market account and run for governor of the fourth-largest state? Who says being an elected official requires integrity? Why, maybe he's just the guy to extort enough $$$ from BP and it's drilling partners to pay for all the cleanup! And with his vast experience in milking insurance providers (Medicare is insurance, you know), perhaps he can sort out our ridiculous homeowners insurance situation in Florida. "Lets get to work," he says in his commercials.
Let's get to work, indeed! Let's elect Rick Scott, and then let's go and elect Marco Rubio - another pillar of electoral integrity - to the U.S. Senate. All he did was make a party-supplied AmEx card his personal piggy bank for a couple years while sitting atop the Florida legislature. He never so much as sniffed the glue on the sealed envelope of an indictment, let alone do time, so by God, let's plop him right down in the middle of Senate chambers in Washington and let him do his thing. He's a natural! He's the Roy Hobbs of the GOP! He's someone Florida can be proud of!
Ah, but I digress. What's the old saying? "Strap yourself in; it's going to be a bumpy ride." Not only is the oil disaster going to be a bumpy ride, it's going to be a long one, so pack a sandwich and while you're at it, a case or two of Dawn detergent, because we all might find ourselves scrubbing cormorants and pelicans and terns and turtles before this is all over. And hey, Rick and Marco, whether you win or lose, know that I for one, have no qualms about you running for office. After all, it's the American way. It's the getting elected part I can do without. All this talk about the Gulf gets me . . .
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin'
In short order, we will move well beyond any descriptive conceivable by even the most creative of poets and linguists. We will stand, mouths agape, voices silenced by the sheer magnitude of what lay before us. While the world tries to go about its business - blaring vuvuzelas signaling another World Cup come to South Africa - we cannot push the Gulf oil disaster to the back pages. It simply won't allow us to. From loose-lipped generals and history-making marathon matches at Wimbledon, to Tiger Woods' impending divorce and a Republican titan of corporate corruption running for governor of Florida, these are merely sideshows that steal a headline or two. THE story, now and for months, if not years, will be the GOM - the Gulf of Mexico.
Yesterday, a photograph in the St. Petersburg Times showed a thirty-something man kneeling on a once-pristine beach crying into his hands as the oil spread before him in both directions as far as the eye could see. This native Pensacolan, the article went on to say, had been taught by his father how to swim in the warm waters off this very beach, and it is where he, in turn, had taught his own son to swim. No more. Fathers won't be teaching sons or daughters to swim in these waters any time soon - if ever again.
You know, I've always considered myself a pragmatic optimist, if there is such a thing. I try to look at the bright side, yet I understand the limitations of man and our inclination toward self-indulgence and self-enrichment. So, not a lot surprises me, good or bad. When the former CEO of the largest for-profit hospital company on the planet, a company fined over a BILLION dollars for ripping off Medicare while he was CEO, throws his hat in the ring for the Republican gubernatorial nomination in Florida and proceeds to spend his way to the top of the polls in a little over ninety days, I simply shrug my shoulders and go about my business. I mean, the guy never went to jail, or was even indicted for that matter, so why not empty a few mil out of the ol' money market account and run for governor of the fourth-largest state? Who says being an elected official requires integrity? Why, maybe he's just the guy to extort enough $$$ from BP and it's drilling partners to pay for all the cleanup! And with his vast experience in milking insurance providers (Medicare is insurance, you know), perhaps he can sort out our ridiculous homeowners insurance situation in Florida. "Lets get to work," he says in his commercials.
Let's get to work, indeed! Let's elect Rick Scott, and then let's go and elect Marco Rubio - another pillar of electoral integrity - to the U.S. Senate. All he did was make a party-supplied AmEx card his personal piggy bank for a couple years while sitting atop the Florida legislature. He never so much as sniffed the glue on the sealed envelope of an indictment, let alone do time, so by God, let's plop him right down in the middle of Senate chambers in Washington and let him do his thing. He's a natural! He's the Roy Hobbs of the GOP! He's someone Florida can be proud of!
Ah, but I digress. What's the old saying? "Strap yourself in; it's going to be a bumpy ride." Not only is the oil disaster going to be a bumpy ride, it's going to be a long one, so pack a sandwich and while you're at it, a case or two of Dawn detergent, because we all might find ourselves scrubbing cormorants and pelicans and terns and turtles before this is all over. And hey, Rick and Marco, whether you win or lose, know that I for one, have no qualms about you running for office. After all, it's the American way. It's the getting elected part I can do without. All this talk about the Gulf gets me . . .
. . . Wishin' I Was Fishin'
Sunday, May 30, 2010
BP, oh, BP
Well, so much for the "junk shot," and the "top kill" and the "little dome" and the "big dome." So much for "relief valves" and "blowout preventers" and "drilling mud" and chopped-up golf balls. Now we get to sit back and watch helplessly while BP endeavors to employ a "lower marine riser package," that even if it works, will only "minimize the amount of oil reaching the shore," not stop it. Five weeks and counting. Next, we'll just have to wait another month or two or three for the "relief wells" while another bazillion gallons of crude soil the waters and connected ecosystems of our beloved Gulf of Mexico. Oh, and there's the possibility that it will spread to the Atlantic coast as well. Oh yeah, and by the way, hurricane season starts this week! Take that, Louisiana!
As Exxon rakes in record profits for the umpteenth year in a row, two decades after their brush with infamy called the Valdez, BP has now trumped their oil brethren with the worst man-made environmental disaster ever recorded in the United States. And it ain't over yet! Now that's something to be proud of. If you can't out-earn them, by God, out-spill them! And of course, along with it comes news that BP has been, according to headlines, "less than forthcoming with information about it's oil spill," and is losing credibility as each effort to stop the spill fails. Duh!
From the Associated Press also comes the now-all-too-obvious revelation that, "On almost every issue - the amount of gushing oil, the environmental impact, even how to stop the leak - BP's statements have proved wrong. The erosion of the company's credibility may prove as difficult to stop as the oil spewing from the sea floor." I smell a rat; a gooey, filthy, oil soaked, Xs-for-eyes, floating rat. Get ready, people, as more and more information leaks out (leaks - ironic, no?) - in the form of internal memos and e-mails and such - we're going to learn that - brace yourself here - another humongous, multinational, Fortune 100 conglomerate was playing hanky-panky with the rules so they could make a few extra bucks. And, the very folks being paid by our taxpayer dollars charged with oversight of said conglomerate, were essentially complicit in their failure to enforce those rules. Gee, do you think there could be a connection between the fact that the people who work for the hopefully-soon-to-be-defunct Minerals Management Service, who pretty much all previously worked for the companies in the industries they're charged with overseeing and the fact that oversight was, shall we say, a bit lax? My, doesn't that have a familiar ring to it? Can you say, "banking industry redux?"
So, once again, the insanely-compensated suits parade before Congress and proceed to blame one another as we watch in disbelief on C-Span, all the while lobbying for their own financial liability to be capped. BP had net profits in 2009 of nearly $17 billion. That's billion with a "b." And that was on the heels of over $21 billion in net profits in 2008. What do you think folks? Does that sound like a company that should have its damages capped? Expecially one that knowingly failed to follow appropriate protocols which would have prevented the spill in the first place? Not only should they pay - all of them (that means you too, Transocean, and you too, Haliburton) - but every executive in every liable company should be required to don those protective jumpsuits, rubber gloves and masks and man the front lines in the cleanup effort. And, they should not be allowed to stop until the President of the United States tells them they can. Then, seeing as how they're top-notch businessmen, you know, best and brightest, cream of the crop and all that, they should be required to help rebuild every company that will be decimated by this catastrophe, and just for good measure, pay off the mortgages and other indebtedness that will inevitably befall the residents of these coastal regions after the loss of their livelihoods. Sorry BP shareholders, it's going to be a millenium or two before you see another dividend check in your mailboxes.
Amid the outrage that followed the Exxon Valdez we heard the cry, "never again!" Well, again happened, and on a scale that will eventually make the Valdez look like a piker. This time will the rallying cry be the same "never again?" Here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, we look out across the green-blue water and wonder when. When will it hit us? Our brothers and sisters in Louisiana and Alabama already have their answer as they put on their jumpsuits, gloves and masks and grab a bottle of Dawn. And I'm guessing they're not thinking, "never again." I'm guessing it's more along the lines of, "What in God's name are we going to do now?" BP, turn off the oil and get out your checkbook. While there's still fish to fish for, I'm . . .
. . .Wishin' I Was Fishin'
As Exxon rakes in record profits for the umpteenth year in a row, two decades after their brush with infamy called the Valdez, BP has now trumped their oil brethren with the worst man-made environmental disaster ever recorded in the United States. And it ain't over yet! Now that's something to be proud of. If you can't out-earn them, by God, out-spill them! And of course, along with it comes news that BP has been, according to headlines, "less than forthcoming with information about it's oil spill," and is losing credibility as each effort to stop the spill fails. Duh!
From the Associated Press also comes the now-all-too-obvious revelation that, "On almost every issue - the amount of gushing oil, the environmental impact, even how to stop the leak - BP's statements have proved wrong. The erosion of the company's credibility may prove as difficult to stop as the oil spewing from the sea floor." I smell a rat; a gooey, filthy, oil soaked, Xs-for-eyes, floating rat. Get ready, people, as more and more information leaks out (leaks - ironic, no?) - in the form of internal memos and e-mails and such - we're going to learn that - brace yourself here - another humongous, multinational, Fortune 100 conglomerate was playing hanky-panky with the rules so they could make a few extra bucks. And, the very folks being paid by our taxpayer dollars charged with oversight of said conglomerate, were essentially complicit in their failure to enforce those rules. Gee, do you think there could be a connection between the fact that the people who work for the hopefully-soon-to-be-defunct Minerals Management Service, who pretty much all previously worked for the companies in the industries they're charged with overseeing and the fact that oversight was, shall we say, a bit lax? My, doesn't that have a familiar ring to it? Can you say, "banking industry redux?"
So, once again, the insanely-compensated suits parade before Congress and proceed to blame one another as we watch in disbelief on C-Span, all the while lobbying for their own financial liability to be capped. BP had net profits in 2009 of nearly $17 billion. That's billion with a "b." And that was on the heels of over $21 billion in net profits in 2008. What do you think folks? Does that sound like a company that should have its damages capped? Expecially one that knowingly failed to follow appropriate protocols which would have prevented the spill in the first place? Not only should they pay - all of them (that means you too, Transocean, and you too, Haliburton) - but every executive in every liable company should be required to don those protective jumpsuits, rubber gloves and masks and man the front lines in the cleanup effort. And, they should not be allowed to stop until the President of the United States tells them they can. Then, seeing as how they're top-notch businessmen, you know, best and brightest, cream of the crop and all that, they should be required to help rebuild every company that will be decimated by this catastrophe, and just for good measure, pay off the mortgages and other indebtedness that will inevitably befall the residents of these coastal regions after the loss of their livelihoods. Sorry BP shareholders, it's going to be a millenium or two before you see another dividend check in your mailboxes.
Amid the outrage that followed the Exxon Valdez we heard the cry, "never again!" Well, again happened, and on a scale that will eventually make the Valdez look like a piker. This time will the rallying cry be the same "never again?" Here on the Gulf Coast of Florida, we look out across the green-blue water and wonder when. When will it hit us? Our brothers and sisters in Louisiana and Alabama already have their answer as they put on their jumpsuits, gloves and masks and grab a bottle of Dawn. And I'm guessing they're not thinking, "never again." I'm guessing it's more along the lines of, "What in God's name are we going to do now?" BP, turn off the oil and get out your checkbook. While there's still fish to fish for, I'm . . .
. . .Wishin' I Was Fishin'
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